The moon woke me, the pocked and chalky moon
that floods the garden with its silvery blue
and cuts the shadow of one leaf branch
across this bed of mine as if on to bright snow.
The sky is empty. Streetlights and stars
are all extinguished. Still the moon flows in,
drowning old landmarks in a magic lake,
the chilly waters lapping at my pillow,
their spell relentless as this cold
unhappiness in which I lie awake.
Insomnia by Elaine Feinstein 2002
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