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42 SLEEPING SONG When my alarm buzzed him to work before dawn, he turned and weighed his leg on both of mine, pressing against my stomach with his palm. By the time I woke again, the median line jumped and wavered in his eyes as it swept to a home I’d never seen. He closed the blind and slept all afternoon and while he slept, he dreamt that he was a genius and dead, the rest of us lost in that dark night, left with books of numerical tables, with stale bread and the sound of flies. All the time he was lying there dreaming, he also thought of me, the bed I woke alone in striped with light, crying out at my fingers’ work. It was nearly done as he started to dream what was real, sighing up into life, thinking he would go out soon for a drink, that he would see me turn, a sentence half out of my mouth, look, and he’d be gone. ...

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