Like a comedian in a labor camp,
I work hard not to be noticed.
The mathematician tells me not to
play music in my sleep. His bunk
is outdoors, a window-box for stars.
When they fall on him, he thinks
he's on fire. Put yourself out, Copernicus,
we mutter, and he goes back to sleep.
Cradling chairs like a guitar
I croon something at the moon.
It has a fine ear and spreads itself
around like a larger audience.
A last mouse, the opera star,
sings snow out of her mouth.
Two more months of this,
and even the wind will stop
flirting with me.
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