This isn’t a form of sleep

This isn’t a form of sleep
not a when white was bright hits right kind of day
or a brightened saw shrugged sore
when our arms parted ways with our shoulders
we left them there on the floor

now I burn my dull drawer
how I burn my dull drawer

I cull draws by lamplight
in night fits by dull caws
and the reds burn so raw they roar

a sad tableaux of low repose
where hope is a brittle dried rose –
but what is it you’re standing for
all men
night inspections
wages and hours
waiting at an open door

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