Crane Fly
Could return it to the lemon grass, the aeoniums—
from its legs, pluck
my auburn weight, could flip the lights on
—most nights without falling—I fill
and fight through the space before sleep. The space
between our bed frame and mattress vibrates—the drum
of struggle lulls me. And still, in the morning,
the silent form on the bath mat
splits me like a stone.
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