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49 Night Without Dream, Morning Without Memory Every now and then, when the last train plays its harmonica to the other side of the hills, and no more faucet drops land on enamel, no clear crack of loose floorboards or knee joint popping through the screen door, I sleep without troubling phantoms. Now and then, full of sleep, for a lifetime, my dead out of complaints about my life, I wake with the assured memory of nothing. The back porch hammock I dream on melts like early fog, and I float, swimming karma back down to zero. These times are the same, apex of one gable, obverse of the single coin, self-same moment of emptied sleep, filled wakefulness, one second in the center of the merry-go-round, tigers melting. ...

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