holding on to ragged deams
midnight is an arm, silken with age,
fringed in hope, it is a sidewalk,
an unpaved road
midnight is a bosom, rising quiet like
bread and love presses down, just
so it can rise again
midnight is a hard sole, crusted
with garden, memories cling as it
pads to morning
this midnight is lighted, as white and
opaque as milk
inside is a dream that someone once had
the dream is still and awake
(c)Jill Winkowski 2009
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