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Poem: Saturday Morning: A Sonnet 

Lets try to start things simply. First, I woke,
and heard the rain beat on the windowpanes;
I paused and listened, loving when it rains—
the morning misty as though drenched in smoke.
I didn’t speak--the rain spoke for me then,
as I got up, made coffee, eggs and toast
and moved through all these actions as a ghost
moves through its dying motions once again.
After we finished breakfast and you left,
I started bread to rise and ran a bath
and sinking into it, began to laugh
because this felt like heaven, and like death—
to be so all alone, nowhere to go
but to be still, and watch the curtains blow.

  • Poetry edited by Phillip Levine.

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