The Dew Pond

//I have woken to
that occasional weight
of the chain mail
of another night sweat
//but now it is winter
my cycle-kicking
of the layered sheets
has no drying effect
//I lie in wait for a miracle
but revert to dancing
blindly to the bathroom
to dab my dew ponds
//This uneasiness
in my places of aches
of Song-writing Disease
could be helped
//by flicking the switch
but such light
such selfish luxury
would wake you
//As I towel myself down
I remember in waking
that you are not here
and will not be woken

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