Trying.  Tired. 

Trucks pass, TV’s on 

downstairs.  A candle flickers.  

Feet cold. Try to sleep. 

*

The sound machine in 

her room breathes ocean waves through 

baby’s monitor. 

*

The day clings ’round my

sternum, brushing heart and lungs,

burrowing there, though

I try to pry it

loose, humanely. 

*

You arrive. 

The house is darker,

quieter, heavier,

and I try to let the heaviness

blanket me, 

or to float off

into light nothing.  

I’m trying to sleep. 

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