Sleep
by LaDonna Smith
The mortar of daylight shed its skin,
to be alone in the pearl of the moon.
the lamp cries electronic scratches into
the cracking walls. Furrows bind the skulls,
when rocks are ancestors.
Only the beginning heartbeat hears the
celebration of creation. Afterwards the
throb of pain and time wear on the wooden tubes,
the pages of age
turn in each night below
the gold, below the black, and
into the void.
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