When I lie down, collapsing into bed,

rolling over onto my back, and close

my eyes before bringing both hands

up to my face and impel them to run

fingers through my hair: weathered

and telling fingers, tired and restless

hair, in the interrupted closingness of

shuttered eye’s lids and winged brush

of perhaps unjaded lashes let loose, I

will stop the desedimentation of my self

and start to build something I too can enjoy.

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