This morning I lay in bed. Did not want to get up.
Shall lie here a little longer, I thought, yes, linger and
fall asleep again.
Dream my son is making a sculpture
from clay.
His uncle’s sister-in-law
who
shared his birthday but then died from cancer
seven years ago .
.
A crumbled, crumpled mass of earth
bends and folds and falls apart in front of him.
I wake up disturbed by dirty pain .
.
.
27 > 8 – 67
.
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