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Scratching My Back

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a breath on a cold window pane
the rustle of a turning page
with the absence of silence
at 3 a.m.

a murmur meant only low hum
of old pipes in the wall
squeaking easy

like dust motes in my lair
seen only in light
it’s really not fair

quite ache of sacroiliac
just memories scratching my back
with the absence of silence
at 3 a.m.

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