could you tell me why
i have never seen a bed
of forget-me-nots?
if there is a when
upon which our fingers
can mold than maybe i am just
clay
rather than flower pedals or buds;
maybe i can only lie
in a bed made out of my own
slick substance:
i can only sleep where i
can be—
stones
dirt
mud and crust:
i have no other places to lie
so my head i rest
dreaming of beds
of forget-me-nots
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