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Window

And see it through until the winter day
where paths will blaze unswervingly to homes
alight, each glow in their uncertain way;
Don’t trust that which cannot be said in poem.
The secret ways that every house stays lit-
they’re diff’rent with the passing of each night,
and even if your words were meant to fit
they wouldn’t set themselves to paper right.
For there are men who stand and wait and watch,
their windows black and fogged dark in the mist
They think they know and scratch themselves a notch
so proud to know quiet suburban kiss-

where secrets of each window, bare and bright,
grow louder with the passing of each night.





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