restricted access Sweeping
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84 Sweeping I whisk the litter from my mother’s tomb. I do it blind, I do it in my sleep— While dreaming to the rhythm of the broom, The ancient, tidal motion of her womb. I’m very good at shoring up a heap— It quiets all the corners of the room, Where prayers have shed the echo of their weep. The patterns on the rug begin to bloom, And muted shadows sing as they grow deep; I hear the bristles breathing when I sweep. ...

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