Poems
Official Pajamas
He had none. None for the office
and none for his sleep. None for Sunday
mornings with their warm and shapeless light.
It was freaky, how the light went onward
without any goals. Asking for a friend
instead of itself, itself being already
fulfilled by existing. Must be nice, she thought.
Coaxing all the egg out of the shell
as if such a thing could hold meaning.