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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Temperature Rising

I swam twenty fathoms
to the bottom of my sleep.
Under the ocean.
Past the place of any dream
or meaning.
It was perhaps where a stone sleeps,
where a cadaver shutters,
where a broken heart finally freezes
and gives up its pain.
In the morning,
I sat on the edge of the bed
like a swimmer collapsed on the sand,
wiggling his toes,
sense slowly returning,
time to wake up
and return to the sun.

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