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three o’clock slump :: sally bliumis-dunn

by on August 6, 2015

You know those afternoons:
too drowsy, the head nods.

The lines in the book
blur, the book

becomes a piece of driftwood

and your fingernails cake
with moss and mud from
trying to hang on.

The next thing you remember
is the soft muddy bottom,

and you, looking dreamily
up through the water
at your own thoughts

as though
at the underside of leaves,

that begin to look
like flattened hands or paws

without the mass of a body,
the orb of a head —

which is how you are
beginning to feel

about your body and your mind.

They have floated so far
away from each other.


From → poems

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