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Into my lying down bed
I sink and go out of my head
to a place where each letter becomes a word
and each word a book wherein the stars are read.

Not tonight for the raucous bars,
the pat sip of rye where I put away my words
and let them sleep with no bother from my moods;
but tonight I call them, and when I call they come to bed.

Wild they ride me, telling me not to fear
what is written there in the fabric of the sheet
wound of tight threads; pouncing on top, they wail
and sink, and once tired throw the sheet back over my head.