9.7.18

The braid of thought
has come undone
a moment too soon.
Hold me close,
before my anxiety
balloons and carries me
to a colder region other
than this dull living room.
Already, the constellations
shift in their sockets,
traffic putters on
too slowly for
the general taste.
My hands are dirty,
and I can’t just
rub them clean again.

-r. miller

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