8/2/00
women sleep like their infants
a closely connected dance that
begins in
their wombs
I would wake in the dark
pulled by
some internal moon
before my baby even stirred
zombie walk to crib side
to put to breast an infant
that still
smelled of sleep
poetry feels like that waking
a calling to write that comes
from some
internal place
try to produce a substance
that is only a few cells less then blood
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