Tuesday, August 12

Velvet Sleep

the small furry thing on delicate toes
tastes its tail, presses its nose

erudition not its game it pads itself into its hole
feathers from his yester-meals conceal, console

it doesn’t think of anything
it doesn’t think of eh-nee-thing
it doesn’t think of n-eeee-th-eeeng
and waits and waits and waits

cold and comfort, fluff and chill
it nuzzles deeper . . . deeper . . . deep

clouds simplistic brain with cotton
sculpts itself warm velvet sleep

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