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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.