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  Morning Raga

Doug Draime

 


I may be numb in the morning,
turned over like
a dried prune in the sun,
staggering to the window
to relieve myself of
the dark, dark night.
Something in me dies in sleep,
something else
is born in the same instant,
some wild exuberant infant
uncertain about
this new thing in the ancient world

 

 

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