from the time it takes to find a void, again;
the shaking sick-dog silence stretching
without soft hand to touch or
much-needed embrace
falling into shadows, heavy and woolen;
damp heat ever awning gawp of evening
beyond the window's reflecting and
pit of emptiness beyond
cold Waiting-for-Godot sweat, again;
I am not thicker than time and I thin
into trembling beaten patterns waiting
for a gentle pat on the head
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