Those though,
rest ye
by way of a thousand forms.
Dry deeply
For one minute of sound sleep.
Red, dark among
The overcast skies
The sun morphs into a visual lullaby
For insomniacs.
Any leg would object to the moon’s ordered walk.
Or she
In the gun room
Answer ye. Answer please.
Every pay day in the city
Separates us more by layers
of love
and oceans a’plenty.
(c) jim hill (10-24-05)
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