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WindowThough the windows shine and shine and the lace is knotted up like the clutch of cloth at a woman's throat the windows are spidered with gloss and grime and splotches grow, and flies crawl on past the picture of the gate and the next-door row made of cheap filigree and gossamer chain packed with wax from the ash-crusted candle the windows are dirty, you can see, you can see the be-suited people crawling into cars in the early morning when the moon is still heavy and sagging in the sky like the mouth of the woman who frowns next door when she takes in the bins every Wednesday in the dark and the bad rain starts and the cloth slides over the glass, over fog leaving lint because it's stark poor quality from the depressing store where rows of food and goods are spotlighted like walls of things to get rid of, get rid of these pictures of candy and bleach, get rid of the window I'll get rid of that window in the cold, in damp heat the fire will burn, the fire will burn all the tires at the end of the street, stacked up at the end of the street where the car burned last week, where the shop burned last month and all the trees have lost their leaves can see them fall from behind the window sheen of flies and cat-hair and flies and I can see the breath of wind that flutters the branches reaching deep and flutters the garbage across the gravel-lawn I can see movement out there, from where it's so still, I can see movement out there. This poem first appeared here. #Poem #Poetry #CreativeWriting #Window
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