poetry
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The Quiet House with Loud Dreams

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One window of our new house does not have a screen.
After reading bedtime stories by the man who wrote
The Book of Lost Things it’s impossible to sleep
in this storm. The rain is harassing the bare glass and
it sounds like someone is tapping to come in–
the Crooked Man is scratching or those faeries
who steal children have found the wrong home–
I am alone with my man and there is no crying
in the next room. We have no one to soothe
after giant claps of thunder but me
and two restless cats.

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