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Working Late in My Studio
on the Second Story
Sounds from the bypass drift up.
On the ground floor, a clock and the kitchen tick.
A cat yawns, pulling sleep out of the carpet.
My dead mother, who must be white as maggots now,
slips her voice under the front door.
I nod myself awake,
hoping I've been asleep.
Towns Facing Railroads, U. Arkansas Press
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