Boxes and the Morning Post
in my glass tower
i watch the walls melt
into sunrise surrenders
and armies deplete
into fields of daffodil gold.
in my glass tower
i can’t hear you scream
when the thought crosses over
from memory to waking
when you touch what you can’t see
and see what you can’t touch.
you were something once, then
when the dolls were your neighbors
and pills were your friends.
she scratches at your forehead.
it’s a bug bite. no, a scar.
can you remember where you are?
in my glass tower.
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