Harsh sheets
fall softly.
Leaves once, crack in November.
Shellac the face with stones,
I saw this:
a model whose head
pasted with small grey stones,
like you find
on any rocky pebble beach.

Sheets perhaps of rain,
or the ones you wash because
you sleep in them,
or what we write or draw on.

Sheets fall

my walls

falling, falling
like tears.

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