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We Pass

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­You and I pass on the street,
and in my walk
I pause, not a physical pause,
not a stopping and standing of the feet
but a pause
in gait, a pause
in rhythm, a tripping-up of toes,
invisible—
save to my eyes
my glassy eyes.

You and I pass on the street,
and I stumble
for an instant, and I forget
for a moment
the wall between us,
that tragic monument to our end.
Our eyes do not meet—
yours are averted,
affixed to the sidewalk
the beauty of your world exists
only in concrete.
The shame is all mine—
after all
I am to blame for your blindness.

As for my eyes,
dry—as of late—
they capture the sky,
and I hold its cerulean canvas
in the highest of regards.
These clouds
are of a strange paint—
this picture,
of a different medium—
the artist—
of the loftiest caliber.

You and I passed on the street once,
and I forget now, exactly why—
but I paused
or rather, I stumbled,
and to this day
I examine the sky,
and with every drifting cloud
your memory fades.



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