Raymond Clevie Carver (1938 - 1988 / Oregon / United States)
I woke up with a spot of blood
over my eye. A scratch
halfway across my forehead.
But I'm sleeping alone these days.
Why on earth would a man raise his hand
against himself, even in sleep?
It's this and similar questions
I'm trying to answer this morning.
As I study my face in the window.
Comments about this poem (The Scratch by Raymond Clevie Carver )
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