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SLEEP - Mo Wenneker

Only then, at the brink of despair,

when you can say truly I don’t care

and think of nothing and hold

yourself to that nothing,


it gives in and lets in the opposite

Then to rush at the pack for some paper

and clack at the lighted keys

all night and all morning

like a dying breath,


the last thought goes stale as death,

and you wake to sleep

But this,

not until the until,

does the most naked truth appear,

stripped down to its bones,

sharpened to talons that finally reach the point

They grip the purpose with hate

and caresse the night with everything else

anointing bit by bit,

This thing called sleep is slick


Mo Wenneker currently lives in Northern California. She studied History at the University of California, Davis. She works at a Charity Organization and spends her free time writing poetry, jazz drumming, and taking her dog on long walks.


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