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sitting at the same
window 3:00 a.m.
a stretch of lit
sidewalk guarded
by pine prongs
poking into the
fire night

a rectangle appears
brightened to peach
someone else cannot
sleep

i wonder
if some somber
insomniac ever
took to creeping
through the cemetery
in these hours

tonight perhaps
guessing souls
brushing treetops
not even a star
just the blood of sky
through this
same window