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Tired Sex by Chana Bloch

Tired Sex

by Chana Bloch

Trying to strike a match in a matchbook

that has lain all winter under the woodpile:

damp sulfur

on sodden cardboard.

I catch myself yawning. Through the window

I watch that sparrow the cat

keeps batting around.

Like turning the pages of a book the teacher assigned—

You ought to read it, she said.

It’s great literature.

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