The clock blinks3:33. Again. The candle cracklesthough there is no breeze. The catstares into a cornerwhere nothing stands— or perhapswhere something does. Outside,the trees swaywithout permission. Inside,my coffee has gone cold,my cigarette burns itself away,and another poemarrives uninvited. People askwhere inspiration comes from. I never knowhow to explainthat it knockspreciselywhen ghostsbegin changing shifts.

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