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a vestibule


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I think sometimes about that door of his,
the frantic cold,
the breadth, the width.
Subtle.
Heartlessly tasteful.
No one taught him that imperfection
makes a thing still more perfect.
There’s no feel, no scent,
an almost suburban forgettableness.
No distractions.
Waiting at death’s door is all
suspension,
like the tense legs of a bridge
waiting to collapse and meet the water.



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