Write chunks of white poetry on black night.
Your poetry must be of your narcissistic self

Morbidly touching the way an old tree waves
In your darkness, a schoolgirl laughs in sleep

Over yesterday’s homework in waving paper
Below a basement, between pictures of gods.

Poetry is confessional, some redness in face
Looking into crevices to let things not sleep.

A sleep alone will deliver up your confession
As you turn to your side to face a blank wall

Where  beginning , middle are not pictured
And the end turns out to be a breath, a lack.


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