I worry the edges,
run my hand along the wall
trying to push through.
I sleep; I’m awake.
And too often now,
there is no difference.
Dusk and dawn
flee each other
in a failure of translation.
Predictably patterned,
I talk, and plan,
and pace about:
a lost transcendence in search
of a permeable moment.
(October 7, 2016)
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