Poem -

the bus poem - part twelve; nest

I know
that when your head is on my shoulder,
when your breath is asleep in that little hollow
between my neck and my collarbone,
it’s because your mind
is searching for a river bed,
some place to rest against the white noise waves.
Looking for some sweetness to spin
through the C fibres,
and whatever it is that’s failing to produce serotonin.

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