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Waking
The sound will call you—that undeniable
murmur of heart, the beat—mouth
open in an O, like a cloud rising.
You will rise, a burdened angel.
Why do they call it waking
and not becoming?
Almost beautifully, the fist opens,
the fingers stretch and release.
The day will beckon like wind—
softly, then rustling with impatience,
and you a leaf, nodding in response.