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the town and I keep a respectful distance.
a fountain cup spins like a wheel of fortune
in a wind eddy of the alley
until I leave. it could be
that human lives are shaping these scenes,
lives not my own, lived elsewhere, now,
but I only find them alone
and I can’t separate out my role
in their creation. but if I could
I’d say it in leather, and I’d say it in wire,
I’d say it in those old car seats
(apples embedded in foam cushions
like Gregor Samsa’s back),
but I’d stack them two mountains tall.

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