The Window
I could write a poem about getting up from the desk where I was sitting, walk to the door, open it, go out of doors and look in the window through the gauze curtains, where I had been, bathed in a cone of light. I would see the chair, the table, the light, the room inside itself, all in order to get a perspective on what I did, to take the whole in. And this is it--the window.
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