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Where we sleep, you
know, isn’t
necessarily where we wake up,
it all depends on what we dream,
my dead mother, for example,
crisscrossed by the fence, fingers
hooked through the diamond-
shaped links. Maybe the complexity
of the machinery has made me restless,
or the heat from someone’s tears,
but it’s 2 a.m. and I’m still awake,
every rusty cut burning with its own
peculiar insistence, and the radio
on the white nightstand for company.
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