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The Unborn

 Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads,
Like gnats around a streetlight in summer,
The children we could have,
The glimmer of them.
Sometimes I feel them waiting, dozing In some antechamber - servants, half- Listening for the bell.
Sometimes I see them lying like love letters In the Dead Letter Office And sometimes, like tonight, by some black Second sight I can feel just one of them Standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea In the dark, stretching its arms out Desperately to me.

Poem by Sharon Olds
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