Every night, before going to sleep,
I don’t need it. I set it down, my phone.
This is something towers can’t transfer;
no text message has such use.
Instead, I open my imaginary pill case,
and let out winged, imaginary happys—
i send them to all, to descend midst
the mush of brains, unclasping for dreams.
© 2009 Constantine Kulakov
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