the kitchen faucet
prattles on in dark,
and i think of the fallen nest
i found on the walk home…
(in my demi-sleep,
the dripping
takes the voice of a fledgling)
the chirping inserts itself,
replacing all notion
and
no plumber, no sparrow, no god,
i can do nothing to repair
the illusion or the certainty
(i toss,
on a bed too small for a man)
awash in reverie,
having never seen
the place i’d rather be…
Poem of the Month 
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