Written by Randy W. Plym
In dreams, I ride bicycles.
I don’t know how to ride bicycles.
At night, I rage at finitude
before blank pages send me scurrying out to gibbous streets
where lamp lights and live wires together
flicker out a disco,
and endless corridors avail nothing more
than the first light of morning’s rebuke.
Text © Randy W. Plym
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