A place with 100 doors --
not quiet, but hungering for
the crumbs of life.
The sun is melting
into smoke
flooding the sky.
An old calendar
whispers
clean out the closet.
Poetry with rules
is a flock of wheeling birds
who refuse to shit.
I stay in my room
traveling the universe
with a cup of tea.
Even a mountain
shrinks
given enough reason.
Escape from sleep
gives morning pleasure;
the same as embracing
the dark bed.
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