where do the pages of night go
once they've been turned
and the stars lose their spot
fastened to a fleeting robe
of dark? the daybreak
is unremarkable, business-
minded in its wakefulness,
its constant routine, until
buried under the labours
of evening, that slow tide
pulling the sun down lower.
the days smear together.
they look like my mother's
favourite poem, the one she cried
over for years.
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