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It began as a thing like sleep,
overtook me in the same slow way —
a current of syrup advancing up my nerves.

Sometimes it hid the name of my street
or the key that locks my sphincters.
Cold mornings, I forgot my hands.

At each frontier I'm overthrown.
A cloud owns the world and I feel
I am made out of honey and ashes.

Who are you there behind
who rolls me into the sun,
touches me?

What love are you,
you who have always been there?

      — Scott Murphy