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The view from a place for sitting


I work in a very mundane cube,
within a larger mundane box,
all sectioned and hemmed by rows and streets
that follow a tree-denying grid.
The concrete of this place does not believe in magic;
forgetting that it was ever rock and burnt lime
but I have not forgotten.
I move through these halls, along the inorganic lines,
a witch in sheep’s clothing;
my eye ever beyond the glass.

Within this box I’ve found a room;
a quiet room on the fourth floor
whose window cheeks face west and press against the river.
In morning it is unknown,
not yet made corporate by a florescent stare.
It is a nook where one can kiss center
and listen.
There, I wear the rumble of trains
rippling across water, across breath
as the river slaps against my roots, whispering.

Today two ships cut through my peace,
calling out to one another like succinct whales,
courting a brusque love.
Something moved through me
and the wanderer lifted its head
to wonder at soaring.


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