NIGHT LOG

I toss all night on the sleep of the lakeSighing into the dark pane of its stoneThe last storefront has finally closedTheir fry chef folds his curtain of ironOver its Golden City as my ear rakesThe last hour into a pile AgainI’ve lost the point of counting sheepAgain the black sail of my thoughtSplits the same paddle against the shoreI toss all night on the sleep of the lakeThe clipped nail of the moon continues to climb
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