April 13, 2012
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We wait in the across the hall,
Eyeing the wooden door,
Evergreen paint chips at the vertices,
Carving around the curves cut.

You stand in front of us,
and blink and the radiator sputters in the hallway
behind you.

Sometimes we sit out here,
Across the hallway, only to get away from

Their ridicule and trumpets and carbon-fiber printings.
Their red coats and Deep Winter Nights

below the bridge.

Quiet, still, quiescence.

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