Sleeping with the Lights On


Let's say, for argument's sake,

that love is a longer version of solace,


a lake of snow


with an immeasurable hat size,

somewhere where the air


doesn't ache so much

and old cell phones aren't piled


as high as the trees yet,

and let's say you and I go there


and take bets from the shore birds

on the hour and manner of the next death


and the next,


and when we're tired of pretending

to be astute, let's say we lie down


and sleep like seeds or numerous pebbles,

but with the lights on, and we do,


oh, we do.

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