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THERE IS A MUGGINESS

snailing in my window
with that early a.m. hiss of
too much caffeine and no
work morning I write poetry
with my eyes closed against
the light of interruptions Words
sometimes slip and fall here
and things I don't normally
think are so concise and
necessary I play with my
hair in the dark Humid
curls wrap my fingers in a
soft memory

© 1996 Cheryl A. Townsend