the world;
and my bed.

which
is the refuge?

and which
is the storm?

when
long time friends:

are inward
projections;

are simply further proof
of myself;

are shadowy
conjugal visits:

holding hands
with their phantom limbs.

every day,
dissolved and disillusioned,

nails rake
dirt

and it
doesnt feel real

i'm
poking holes.

into

shrouds! fogs!
lights! atoms!