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There's a crack in my bedroom ceiling.
A small thing, just
the ghost of a crack repaired long ago
under the dusty layer
of stippled plaster
and faded paint.

It reminds me of a bird drawn by children,
two arcs joined hanging
over a slanted house
with the requisite apple tree
and a shining sun.

Nightly in my bed the shine from the street slips
thru my window blinds
and the bird circles,
aimlessly
over my dreams.