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I could never be Proust ridden,
sore. The way sick sweat penetrates
the sheets, linger dampness, a moist
infestation.

It matters not the color of sheets,
(cyan, after my mother, solid,
stable, where all creases
could be counted, only if)

Or the number of pillows
(seven: one for each finger to fold-
like an origami of comfort,
feathers, non-plussed.)

But for the density of fabric
how many will a linen count hold.

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