The craver craves an out-of-focus leaving
with a leavening force,
a picture of a bed-ridden domicile,
a smile or a crush.

Afternoon with its spoons
of truthful wonder
rushes a windy steppe
and piles on the glass.

So then I tassles, I hassles
sleep for sleeping’s sake.
Moments later, the wakening
stops its blotters, weakens, creaks,

and mows the floor.
Who chucks the door?
It must be a more hip birth trip
quibbling with a marked assassin.

A gaseous nibbling.
Then eyes to the fire
wholeheartedly masked or bathing
on breathing summer entities

for dollars on the pound.
It’s a round thing, a life.
But where or which way
does it grow?

-r. miller

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