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At this point, five, while it's still dark,
The past can be discarded, all its hooks
And razors pushed behind.  The future
Remains out of view, still formless, not
The thing which soon will have its
Hand upon my throat.  I stare out at some
Distant lights, and drink the day's first
Cup of coffee, wishing that I had the means
To keep away the light.




© Lawrence Beck 2022