Awakened by my wife turning in her sleep

earlier this sticky July evening before we donned pajamas the moon was white simple loneliness bobbing slow in the amberjack sky I awaken to bluish light silhouetting bony branches of the apple tree out front whose fruit's middle is always too soft through a dew-slick window the moon's now straight up half-asleep and smiling among the bric-a-brac stars quicksilver calm of poetry at last

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