the moon is long gone.
Wrapped in an old robe,
I’m waiting for meteors.
They streak over in pauses,
like slow uneven breathing.
A few lone lights steady along.
Who flies at this hour?
A good breeze rustles
high in corn stalks,
much taller than you.
Was a time I believed only
such a strong wind could breath
air back into my lungs, as if
I'd forgotten how.
That’s not really true.
The milky way shimmers,
As a cat nudges my ankles,
A soft ghostly touch,
I do not assume it is so.
And anticipating these showers,
That’s not really what woke me
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