Can't sleep, time to write poems.

Maggie likes to look at 
the sun coming through the veiny leaves.

In her black work boots
she walks to the fields just to be.

And what may be her future
Or what may be her past, you say?

Well, how can one be sure of that
in her big black work boots, anyway?

High heels, maybe are better at pretending, 
but she can't afford those.

Wouldn't feel right on her pinky toes.
'Sides, they might be tight and she doesn't like that.

She just likes this sun on the leaves 
and the field brushing her shins.

She likes the question in her mouth
and the mystery of movement unknown.


I dreamt of an agony hammer
aiming for me 
again and

It was shiny and new
and I thought, 
ought not to get it dirty

And I stopped it
but it was persistent
and it made me 

And your calm breath
flowed at an even pace
you relaxed like the

I lie tight
Like a fishing reel
Wound to extremes and



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