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A lamp's fine light

on the table, in my hair.

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Even here a numb hum.

I cannot raise my head;

now I am ready

for the sound of milk

on a white cat's tongue,

the sound of apples on the tree;

one more falls.

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A woodchuck's long sleep,

thinning clouds, stones

in a brook are a single

chorused note.

Nothing more.