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Morning

Now the room barely contains me.
I am so much of the moment
And stark appearance thrusts
Its mottled self squarely into my eye:
Something sensitive is lost to the sensible.

What was held in this room
 [suspended in horizontal fixture]
defined and squeezed
and nestled into its own
nebulouscurvatureexistence
is gone.

Books on the bookshelves.
Just books.

A bed, a bed.

The gingham pattern on the bedspread
Looks superfluous.

The curtains spread gingerly.
The light trickles in...

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