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 Tilling the Turf of Dreams From Six Feet Under
Sleep evades me.
Sometimes in the night
I believe
I am a stranger without a friend.
The heat of the day
has settled into my bones.
I count the dust moats
as they filter in.
Muslin curtains
sprinkled with grey snowflakes
skin flakes from the dead.
Why do I think of Christmas in July?
Shadows ease between the blinds,
slanted, human, crouching.
Awakening in a shallow patch of drool,
swollen-eyed, in the morning
I remember.
Today is her birthday.
She always loved Christmas.

Copyright July 30th, 2011  very rough draft. All Rights Reserved by Author.
Melissa A Howells/Meloo of Tilt-a-World

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