after a lit­tle com­bing
and the max ration
there were no abs­ten­tions
from dark­ness to dark­ness
against the rec­tan­gu­lar ope­ning
in the deser­ted street a
slip of paper
grip­ped my hand
but the wide swathe around it
could only come from a wet brain
pun­ched into the snow
as conscious­ness came back
there was a couch
a sub­sti­tute body of mine