157

I never know what to do tomorrow

with a vexed step and a most narrow lip
that arches up like a flagrant flyer
and a presence that shrinks from the nightstrip:
True heroism dwells in the pits of 
vision and priceless thrusts at the central
core, where the catacombs do catapult
bright souls from the ever-wounded litter
of the forward-thinking back-talkers here:
I die to step outside, but I can't step
outside to die when the coast is measured
by broken bottles upon sands preclear:
The pig fat vortex of my sleepiness
cushions my descent into loneliness.  
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