You go to sleep staring
at suicidal projections
on the ceiling, cast
from behind damp sheets.
In the morning, you wake up
feeling like an asshole
who's spent a night
with the wrong lover.
But she's gone, and your money
is still right there.
The Rooster Cockles,
the sunshine doodle doos.
The newspaper has pictures
of a bird you've never seen:
White with blue wings
streaks of yellow
and a black head
all blended together
into a flying burst
of God.
Its precisely my fear
on nights like the last:
Perhaps the world
will trick me back
to life.
-e.
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