against the gates: fatigued from the limit-work against being dragged under the inertia
of days, against being dragged under the limit that is an unrelenting weight—you your own
fatigue,
that exhausted pressure which bars the clearing. O sad gargantuan, can you psalm
the limit-work as you stand just four seconds above the lucid waves, breathing—your
secret prayerthrough the half-mask your hands make, no blaze, no fire-track marking the
line
back to sleep—little clearing—and some relent to the ulcerous pressure within chronic
sleeplessness, drug-tired, looking out for the Angel of the Lucid Dream, looking out