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from the May 2014 issue

Word

In the morning, a word
from someone else's
dream peeks at me
like a conspiracy.
The minute I open my eyes
the word,
with an elegant gesture,
takes me.

The lonely word
is a terminal patient:
pain and screaming,
possibly lethal.
But I’m envious—it flies up
the minute it takes me.

6.28.1995

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