Sweet coma canopy,
brain bath in solemn loops,
a gentle washing away
of handprints,

Makes the bed,
blanketed by dreams,
rest upon reimagined partitions,
instead of the jagged edge,

But there are holes
in the architecture,
pliable infrastructural tunnels
to navigate through,

Lucky termite splinters
the mind, this delicious library,
and feasts upon before all acquired
souvenirs settle into books,

It's then a young turtledove lifts
off toward October next,
searching for the dry twigs
with which to build closure.