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Lullaby, Four a.m. To come out of hiding, little turnip-mouth, clouds among. Dawn’s here, wind on the floor; the big tureen moon spills its pale soup of stars. Potatoes and books in their jackets. The fridge shivers off. I want to hear the sun’s old story. I want to be warmed and made to listen. I want to be chased and spooned up like a drop of mercury. The names curl off their place cards, stretch and say who? And you, soft as a fruit, little keychain-eyes: who? The planets rest in their bead-strings, the seeds in their flower-faces. And the trees lisp and the glass greens. 31 ...

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