/ prayer /

raced by ticking numbers she gets up 702,
she is too tired.

she knows the race.

outside she hears no firm clouds of black,
only brown, white and pink.

just go out.

not by layers at all she unfolds her night,
she Imagines to be still bundled in.

but glad to be not.

rest of her bones and parts cuddles the drill,
she finds the centre to take the hold.

she is finally, at rest.