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  • Foggy morning,
    wrapped and soft.
    Street-lamps pale.
    Outlines smear.
    Hard edges fade.
    Improbabilities released,
    roaming in the shadow gaps,
    peering around corners.

    I open the door and smell their rank uncertainty;
    equations decomposing,
    spreading lichen fractuality,
    nowhere in particular,
    all at once,
    musty maybes,
    frowsy as locked away cats,
    scratching to be released.

    I know when I step outside,
    cross the line between in and out,
    among the drips and rustle,
    the muted murmur of traffic passing,
    I’ll enter that other realm.
    Odd, isn’t it,
    how easily we cross dimensions;
    thinking we’re only
    off to work,
    on our way home
    just stepping out for a pack of smokes,
    off to pick up a six-pack of coke.
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