We are coming into the quiet
heart of the night, the life,
its children, its mild
signatures. Nothing clocks.
Nothing moves us sway.
The nagging dreams flown.
Peace lapping. Slow.
Lapis-drawn figure
eights lying down
so to count the blessings,
sheep, the thrumming
of another day just below
the sternum, whispering
A-men, A-men, A-men.
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