MARGARET HOEHN
There are nights so pierced and clear that
the body aches to be something different
or new. Even the gray ceiling of a shabby
motel longs to be lit with starlight; the
streets want to flow into marshes and
streams; and the old grocery on the corner,
with its peeling paint and dusty porch,
wants to sink in the grass and dream
itself back to prairie and sky. Beneath
this cool, angel-stacked light we can feel
the deepening shift of the hours, and how
the words: my life, my life, alter in their
form and shape in the moments that they
are spoken. Already, the parts of the body
that want to sleep grow dense with roots
and dreams; the parts that will not rest:
sing a little to themselves, weave a coat of
feathers and moss, study the secrets of flight.
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