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Lyric maneuvers through a narrow space,
a blade of light squeezed under a dark door,
hence more condensed
(less being more):
a distillation of the day’s events,
white underbelly weirdly gemmed with dream.
But must it not also
be thinner and thus slip
the more adroitly through the haze of sleep,
time’s keyhole? Molten gold,
the little knife of light
stabbing the dark night.