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October 27, 2015

there are exits, for sure,
but no entrance.
it comes into form
around us,

the walls condense from the air,
thicken from fog to concrete –
or crueller still,
insert themselves as mottled glass,

and so the muffled sound,
the muffled image,
continues its pantomime,
while weeping hands are bound
behind stout backs
to keep them from pressing
against the glass in even that mute language.

for the memory of sky

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