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Insomnia
Sunlight’s refraction through the cracked
kitchen window this
morning;
the water needs of rye and fescue weighed
against a possibility of drought;
that my hip now aches no matter the weather,
and sometimes my heart skips beats;
my wife’s nighttime sighs and her breath
on my bare shoulder;
my youngest son shifting in his bed
as his brother turns the front lock,
and the dog trotting down the hallway
when the door is pulled softly shut;
that my father would have been seventy-two
this year, my mother, seventy-one;
the moon's deliberate arc across our skylight
on this, the first night of autumn.
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