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Teresa Westmoreland


The darkness somehow

holds itself from me,

      boundaries moving,

almost pulsing.

I lie waiting w/ a coolness

over the skin of my legs.

The window open

I no longer see the solitary

light from the runway

rotating white, the green.

I am waiting, for whom?

There is no resolve, only

eventual sleep coming from

the darkness that moves

in to press my now warm

skin. The boundaries now

still, shut down tight and

open to the visions that come

when the pulsing is slow

as a soft knowing grin

from a friend.