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From
a Dream
for Christopher by Amanda Auchter No
one is here this late.
I break into your office, dig through file cabinets, locate my name in charts and diagrams. I tape my hands to the wall, watch my fingers imprint, little hooked grooves of skin & sweat. I rip away; leave a dangle of nail & blood. I spin in a chair, dust clocks, water your plant. I kneel in front of your red couch, feel for a warm spot, an indentation, trace fibers, your smell of coffee and soap. I press my face into the cushions, stuff my hands into the ripped pillow, its tangles slip out like a secret. Later, you wake me, lean over, mouth open. Your words are slow black things. The lights swing by their bony cords. I say, read me, read me. The words bury me in their white trails.
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