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While I sleep the sinister

steal my wings from me, though

I’ve shut on all accounts the sacrosanct.

I checked and this ring tone’s wrong;

it disobeys the poetry of phones,

which depend on digits to decide whether

just to buzz or to explode in squalor.

Every day, jailbait punctuates the yellow

pages, every hit a Chinese handcuff. 

Every night, a gloved hand reaches into

my dream as if to crack the combination

lock. I don’t wind up as such. I don’t kiss

and click and tell and there’s never been

a morning when I’ve woken up this much.

S a r a h   J .  S l o a t







copyright 2014 by Sarah J. Sloat

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