poem: introspection

can we consider the importance

of introspection,


our minds lavvied in milk sunlight and

the webs and

weeds lolled about our


the rats and things now in our pupils, now in

our dusty, heavy eyelids

caught down by the bedsheets,

the watery linen sheets,

the edges still stained with the heat of our passion.

If I lean on the pillow

and put the feathers through my hands,

through my mind

If I call it poetic introspection,

will it justify us?

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