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the
somnambulist
There is
a careful path pre-measured
in the mind
that
enables the somnambulist to venture up from her bed
into the
living room chair to sit at the kitchen counter, waiting for coffee.
The same
sleepwalked steps that must blindly be retraced in the mornings,
when the
phone, sounding its discontent, is replaced on its stand,
the tv
control found in the potted ficus tree,
eye
glasses in the pantry, next to canned raspberries and a bag of brown rice.
She
learned long ago not to blame herself, just allow for some consequences.
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