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Sweat : November Poetics

In the morning

She picks up the mess.

The kicked, tangled sheets toppled over onto the floor

Contorted flung blanket squashed in that claustrophobic space

Between wooden bed and bricked wall.

It seems she is having nightmares

The kind you can’t remember

The kind that turn you into a twisting, turning wild beast,

A prey of something larger than yourself

Something that leaves no mark

But in the sweat on your brow.

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