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Poetry: Every Morning


Every morning that I was awake

at that hour I'd hear

the closing of a car door.

I'd hear the engine starting.

I'd be there in the darkness

sometime after 3 or 4 a.m.

when the gates of the galaxy opened

and the mind is closest to what its lost.

I'd be there thankful for that

driver's morning routine.

And I'd follow it by pulling down

the thick night and folding it

into the bedspread,

into every wear and tear of the

past three years.


Sean Murphy



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