This morning the veil the morning threw
the yawning dark was pale-flower white
and had my eyeballs in its breakfast milk.
Scrawled in chalk the morning walked
its affidavit back and forth across my grave.
No ordinary morning the morning
this morning; the morning the morning
was was wet and stunk of trodden flowers.
White screens overtowered our gabled house
this morning to contain the vacant hours
our remnant selves remained remaining in.
Of all mornings this morning stands
alone on its platform, hands on its head.
Undead, undead, undead.
Read the rest of Overland 244
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