What hair entangles me here?
What filaments and wires?
And why these sudden choirs
of complaint hurling hushed tones
at the walls? Begrudgingly,
I recline in box-spring hell,
the bastard of moonlight,
chomping keratin until
my teeth start weeping.
I know I should be sleeping,
but not much else. Another drink,
and I’ll know even less.
-r. miller
Box-Spring Hell
Published
*Insert Propaganda Here* 