Space on spica

I woke up to space on spica
Soft frills on my shoulder
The window behind the curtain
pretending to be a square

Light is darting like a bee
My shirt is on backwards and
clothes are here and there fallen
like petals in spring

There are bags of yesterday’s stuff
And yesterday’s stuff is full of
the stuff of its yesterday
I am not sure how to disgorge them

There are three glass bottles, empty
The phone is buzzing, distressed
My stomach is turning heavily
like an empty sea.

The sky is as white as skin
The tree tops spread like mossy clouds
There is a light in my head,
a marble in my mouth

But wait, what was the question?

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