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You lie on your dark bed
for two hours, eyes burning
from untold hours of computer light, feeling,
as some poet said, “like hummingbird
eggs boiling in thimbles,
minimalist omelets.”

Now who said that? No book
or search engine knows.

A hundred hummingbirds emerge
from the shadows, carrying
a megaphone made from cradle blankets.
Tucked somewhere in there,
too uncomfortable to sleep,
your voice.