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from the October 2005 issue

At Times

At times sleep deserts me
and lest I pass the night
turning over in bed
I go out to chat with the moon.


She tells me about the flower
that could turn into a butterfly
and the butterfly
that could turn into fire.


And I wake up
as if all of this
had been a dream.


For the next poem in this sequence, click here.

Read more from the October 2005 issue
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