After the night’s rambling
incoherence has unspooled itself
unto paper,
I pick it up,
dripping and inky, clip it
on the line next to my underwear, where
it may flutter, but not be blown away.
As I return to my day life,
I sun my words in
the morning’s rays.
When I collect them,
cream backlit by evening’s sepia gaze,
they glow gentler,
smelling of sunlight and fresh linen.
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