Those blinding powers of judgment—an old union of catching and creating—
fall asleep against you.

Could we have done any better? Coaxed it on with breathing? Kept it awake?

Always again those measuring powers come at us, right up to us

all the while hoping for illicit inspirations from dangerous outings
we are left much the same

—though perhaps a little more unmolded or hollowly intestate.

Sleeping catcher: you never saved—only wimbled, and I never slept—nor caught
what was sleeping underfoot.

(Drawing above, Great Old One, watercolor and ink on paper)

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