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Anthem for the Weary

June 14, 2014

It’s too early for sleep, but too late  to go anywhere as you lay down
On rumpled sheets
The weekend is sleeping by
This is not your mother’s life
Or her mother’s
Or the distant ancestors beyond that, shadowy unreal people
Whose stories you will never know.
This is yours.
In your hands, and your thighs as you turn on your side
and your arms as you rest your face into them
and your breasts as you breathe in the dark.
The cricket sounding off is in the wall or the windows. Maybe he’s even outside, and this overheard symphony is the fault of the open window.
It’s too hot to sleep with it closed tonight. It’s too warm to sleep at all.
But sleep is the safest place, your body knows this. Even as your eyes drift towards closing.
Waking and sleeping and in between, and again.

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