To a Book
How different the book looks to its maker: the botched phantom pages still there, interleaved before his eyes.
Before his eyes
the maybe five nights
when he fell asleep
the way a flower turns toward the sun.
Against all of the years
unable to sleep or go on.
So busy failing,
nobody knows what hard work that is.
Barely time for a coffee break,
never mind a vacation.
Some have worked their whole lives without finding
time to cry.
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