In the bluing,
cognition drowses.
At this hour
how easy it is for there to be
just blue, and a ribbon
of gray, and black fractals of trees
spiring.
Inexorably, there will come to be
color.
And on those colors
a host of thoughts
crowding
and squawking
and rising noisily
from their nighttime folds.
This morning is half-hidden
from me by curtains,
sheer and blotting
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Life in the Multiverse 