Where do the buzzdings
of my
phone
end
and
yours begin?
Out in the kitchen,
leggings and green
beans and rich,
sour coffee.
In the bathroom with
skin cream and torn
jeans.
Night I had nightmares
about the shows
we were watching
and other things that
blur into a wheatpaste
of images and ideas, the
past ten years through
brownout glasses,
the back of head rush
before the tears start.
Where do my
loose hairs
start
and yours
end?
Somewhere in the vicinity
of purple.
Waking up and shaking off
in covers and
sleepy jokes
and that moment
when the arm that fell asleep
also wakes, pulls in.
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