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Midnight, November 9th

in Politics by

After looking into a frame of numbers, listening
to the radio barkers fix a spot and trouble us
with slogan, we turn to sleep in our fleeced

sheets. The night is cold, and we’re tired
of the volumes of others. The wind grasps
against the stucco as we rip into

our dreams. What we know is the gleam
of our bodies together, forgiving the wreck
of dark, its deceptions. We have given up

watching the advances, and the unbroken
desert is still what we’ll wake to: the dawn
of enthusiastic sun as it lifts, harmless and small.


Lauren Camp is the author of three books, most recently One Hundred Hungers, winner of the Dorset Prize (Tupelo Press, 2016). Her poems have appeared in New England Review, Poetry International, At Length, Beloit Poetry Journal, and as a Poem-a-Day for Poets.org. Other literary honors include the Margarte Randall Poetry Prize, the Anna Davidson Rosenberg Award, a Black Earth Institute Fellowship.

Image by Oli Goldsmith via Flickr.

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