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Upon Waking to Find a Sparrow Loose in My Room
by J. Brian Long

I dreamed again the ghost of you.
I dreamed again the folds and the heat
of you sudden in my sleep, I dreamed you wet

against the salt of my want. This is a thing a dream,
a muse, becomes: a flutter whispering about
the dust of the drape, a shadow tangling

must webs in high, hard corners,
the flit, the rasp, of wings tattering
against the pane, against the false, baring light.

I pen you to the sheets, your song
against the dark of my palm; this
is a thing a dream, a poem becomes.

Wind Publishing Co.

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