The bells are few, three in
the morning never much for
ceremony, more sharp jolts
into the inhabited dark and
insomniac rituals, the flesh
resists the blade only just so.
I am the alarm that never stops,
sloppy and improper down to
task and hour, askew
outside the lines, disheveled
among these ill planned
outcomes, a few scribbles across
familiar symbols, the scratching
at the ceiling, the staring
as the shadows change shapes.
The body and the blood
low key high stakes static,
the water glass the corner of
a color, the passing of the light.
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