Buzz burrows
through pillow's squashed gauze,
eats, erodes,
follows a jagged flow
like lightning through
the unlucky, the struck,
and the buzz
winds, whines, wracks
the bed
with rhythmic spasms.
The electric-blue
flare
of my phone's face
relates clues, numerical,
numinous, and
collected from other
than my eclectic collection
of close friends.
Recognition is faint;
scant energy, lacking
caloric reserves, recedes.
Query: Answer a call before noon?
No.
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