I've been hearing about contagious confusion.
How it seeps through the covers from
the parting of our lips.
Shivering when the sheets slip.
I'm not. I will. I didn't.
Please stop.
Left my pillow as a flower.
See your face in sleepless static.
Who could sleep to ignore such a sight?
Shining in the pre-dawn light.
A black room that's free of fright,
and then the sun shoots itself into my veins.
Get up.
OK, I'm just pretending to sleep.
Picture it a thousand ways:
your work isn't to be identified.
Slip away for another hour, and
I speak in the shower:
"I think
I get the title
of that
early Sonic Youth album
now."
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