slid beneath my weighted blanket
heal
the sorrows of outside
pressing moments the wreckage fears for future
are not below this slice
I am
the soil below the road
that
grave earth-scented tutor I write
letters praising daylight the brisk air
and circulating tendrils seek
cracks
becoming all the woven
mats of
nurture my clay expressed small-lidded silent
listening for the morning light
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