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I latched onto the word "prefect" last night

in a dream that rattled me in its ease,
its flow. I saw clouds roll across the light
like an addiction to pleasure-as-breeze:
The Ocean must keep singing forever,
and the tropical plastic-y sound waves
reawaken the beast that lies clever-
ly in waiting beneath hellish enclaves:
The Office is dark and scorned in the night,
but we work on, against the ripped current,
with milky gloves and a case of stage fright
that steadies our path as our knees are bent:
I dream of textures and teas when awake.
The Imperfect is a vision opaque. 
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