Three in the morning.
Making yourself a cup of coffee in the dark, using a flashlight when you pour the boiling water.
Morning's recorded dream, fading: through other eyes, dark plume of a Cuban freighter - fading with the horizon
it navigates across the mind's gray screen.
Three in the morning.
Let yesterday arrange itself around you in flat schematic images. What you said - what she said - watching her
pack - dialing the cab. However you shuffle them they form the same printed circuit: you, standing in the rain,
screaming at the cabby.

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