Mark Cunningham

  

 

Second Story
 
Sheet

 
  Neither cocoon nor web,
but it swaddles newborns
and newdeads.  You’re
    
not that blank:  more
rational, stronger,
you’ve cleared squirm room.

Yet when you wake,
your arms snagged,
your legs wound,
                
you’ve left billows
and pulls damp
from pleasure, from fear.
    
Even if your head
isn’t cowled,
contact leaves hauntings. 

 

 

 


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