I wish I could still doze off
on those yard sale couches
that somehow never got moldy
or rotten
or old.
We could sit through the night
Each in our own armchair,
And watch the passage of time
As our thoughts and words
Flooded the atmosphere
Somehow we woke
Without bugs in our moths
Or leaves in our hair,
and I don’t remember the cold.
like logs in the fire,
We would light into flames
And then slowly fizzle into sleep
U nder the stars and the trees.
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