Cold Cup

I wake up
to the sound of trees,
glum, glimmering.

I give the cup
my hopes,
my energies.

My hands are broken
open, flayed, it
detracts the day,
my energies.

I pour myself
into the cup.
If I just keep
both hands upon it
I'll be alright.

Unless
someone drinks me cold.

◄ Notes On A Soiled Mattress

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