A moth flutters against on my window
seeks entrance to my light bulb,
David Letterman, late night television
Next morning, a bird fancies the living room a garden,
is rendered unconscious. What dreams may come
transit victims
Same night, a seismic movement torments the house
I worry if it might be the dead released from my basement
Inner quiet ought not compromised by circumstances.
The great leap forward to approximating perfection
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