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at your last physical
the doctor told you
”your prostate’s not
that swollen” but
when you get up to piss
’2:13’ phosphoresces
angrily on
the bedside clock
all that cold water
at 10 o’clock gulped
against the salty grip
of smoked fish, half-sours
(pickles and tomatoes), potato
latkes, on your throat
you are not just a mind,
restive, talking into itself;
sleep has left the auditorium
and your every attempt to run after it,
the oddlot memories, the puzzle thoughts,
the queasy rumination, all of it
like thrown dice,
always comes up
the same combination,
oracular doubles:
you want your sleep ;
you’re going to die
the soul may still be
in its 20’s,
but the body you inhabit,
potbellied, grizzle-haired,
arthritically stiffened,
hormonally depleted,
lumbers now downstairs
for the drop of port
that might
catch you up
to flown sleep;
along the way
you see the neighbors’
improbable Christmas lights—
they’re so much quieter
in the dark
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