Fool, Proof

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Talk to me
           in your morning voice,
                                          I’m mourning.
Come soft and thick and muted;
               whisper in my ear.
                                              You see,
we’re                devastated
                 with technology,
with immediates,
                           with projections.
Just talk to me in shadow puppets
          before the wiring shorts,
til we’re blinded in the shadows
          of our ghostly thoughts;

mine’s a self-righteous boogy man,
        well,
                         not a man–
a myoptic little girl
                    who couldn’t see the horizon
20 feet in front of her,
       yet always looking at the distance…

I’ve been long-sighted in my
      shortsightedness.
                        I’ve been
the ode to the death of Thomas Gray’s
                     favourite cat–
      all that glitters
                    ain’t gold
& I’m fool,
                  proof:
    I’m an empty, roofless gallery,
    save
    one broken heart
                                       &
    a cloud ceiling of
                                       suspended
               dreams.

I say talk in your morning voice
      because my dreams need a cushion

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