Every moment’s a splitting twig,
a wind that blows
the smoke west then blows it east.
A thousand silver minnows of distraction!
And sleep, my Lethe and opium.
Once in a while I catch myself awake.
That breaks the spell.
A few last splinters of fire
still smoke in the sky, the me,
the open space, the nowhere.
More from Chase Twichell
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