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I lie in bed, wooing sleep,
But she is a finicky lover.
She ignores my moves,
the way I turn sides restlessly
like the earth drenched in summer
waits for the night.

I wonder
if she thinks I need a new lover,
Or worse still,
if she has found another.



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A leaf fell off a tree,
wafted in the wind.
A moment’s hesitance,
and then, not caring where it went,
it settled below a park bench.

I picked it up,
and placed it in between the pages of a poem.

A few days later,
the leaf had dried,
its skeleton flattened out in submission
between words plucked out from my head.

The poem stood just the way it always did.

I picked up another leaf,
and wrote another poem to accompany it.