At The Wake

Lie there, sleep petered out, eyes half down, the sky
slipping through slats. A bird in each window sings
about horizons, lovers or God’s word. Let doubt

creep in. Then, breathe out. I’ve heard that deep
moan, your slurred speech, seen you curled and prone.
You know, rising means a cur and blue,
lips skyward, and death eclipsed.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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