November 9

comments 2
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A routine reversal,
hard rain at three last night,

then blackout silence
with its own brand of guile–

a blend of impatience and dread,
both long disassociated

from anything tangible, also
hope and its dampener,

prior observation. It seems
impossible, the stillness

of the night, and what propels
me towards the kitchen

in search of a glass is a thirst
for motion, and not for water.

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