I write about you tonight,
dear cotton god.
Of how you suffer the indignities
of my 'toss and turn's.
Begining at my neck,
often in between my legs,
finally on the floor you rest.
Sleepless creases shape
your otherwise benign form.
Moist patches from desperate
douses wet you cold.
Dear cotton god,
how you help me bear the night.
It's stillness.
The nothing-to-do ness.
And how in the afternoon,
i toss you,
like the ineffectual day
tossed the potent night away.
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