2 min readDec 20, 2021
The Overflows
My hands are not a little tired
My mind not a little worn
Sleep in its old corners.
I tread the papery hour
It’s oscillations thrum on my skin,
And in all my brittle crevices
I am walking in the fogs again.
Here, there, a curling loss, something in the white of the eyes, here a pinned up…