a part of me, when i sleep
recoils from some
undiscovered danger it has sensed in you, from
some future slaughter of my green and delicate trust
i wake unsettled. you: gruff
and silent as birds
sing, dressing in the musty gloom. i
lay still, half pretending sleep, hoping for a sign of your motives,
while still superstition roils in me like disease.
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