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Eighteen

Who are you
When the wind stops its restlessness
And lies calm and dormant at your feet?

In the dark there are melodies and voices in the sounds of the house, the motors in the fans, the working of the mattress and blankets

The blind and its window are cracked the width of a finger open
A knife of air strikes your face from it. It's good. It is

February 17, 2010
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