half_asleep_poem_ninety_one raze he sees the world as he made it, but feels nothing. he lets out a brittle signal of truth, the way form chops a fly. he's almost close to me. when it's warmer, we'll go to the beach and he'll write in the sand, not remembering that he once wanted to, but happier now that he can. even his heart would wake again, beating at the sight of his house. i promise you, like a chucked fever, he will return to this broad reservoir. 241123 what's it to you? who go blather from