Once he lies down, he says, he is afraid
There is no getting back up. Maybe
It will be that nothing ever
Is the same; you put the body down
On the adjustable bed in the room where
Those before you also came and climbed into
Clean sheets, one blanket, one pillow, and a noise
Turning into trees whispering overhead.
People dressed in the exact clothing of each other
Walk in and never look at us. He is still afraid,
And so I lie down first, which is to say nothing
Except I am not him, concentrating on the manufactured
Tiles above us, which came from somewhere far
And were brought by truck or rail to this city
Where in time they were laid one by the other
To make a ceiling, sky below which we lie
Looking for stars, as the needle enters the vein,
And we search for any possible constellation, something
Familiar to name.
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