it doesn't do any good
 to try to sleep because my heart
 is thrashing hard trying to climb the bone-white
 ladder and i can't tell it no, so instead i try to sing myself
 to peace, hum hallelujah we're home and shut my eyes so i can't
 see that i'm lying (down) and there's no where to go (?) but upwards
 onto the ceiling, body swaddled in musty yarn and clean white sheets, scarf
 threaded with your cologne and cigarette breath around my mouth. (is it Satie
 in my ears or Chopin, or the thrum of your fingers on the wood-paneled wall?) nocturne
 (me) inside out so that my lungs can finally get enough and innermost chaos will crescendo,
 baritone love-notes will echo (oh), the stardust of your sweetest words will fall over my tongue
 and i'll find repose in the blithe lush of memory: a (touch) of beloved chance and a brush of skin in the dark.

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