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Midnight. 2015.

I open the door of the room of dreams
and file the box on a numbered shelf.

Cold in the air conditioned womb,
I turn the lights off
and stand in a darkness so profound
and locked
that silence struggles
with the angel of death
until their bones crack:

The noise of documents
in foetal hibernation
giving birth to conversations of
Time and possibility
That only lovers
and midwives