Hour Seven: A Sevenling

A sevenling

The birds sing in the dark because there is no rain.
One room over, under yellow quilts, my child cries
out, then returns to sleep. On my side of a different bed

I toss like salad, pain different with each rotation – a
jolt on the back, a stab on the side, internal lightning.
if the birds were crows, our moods would be in alignment.

The moon above us, is no different than the pit of a peach.

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