And if you were that old collection of smudged walls
and dusty glass, you would be embarrassed to be
caught by the morning –
stretched out fence to fence, your top half in scaffolds,
cross in repair from the super storm, gravestones covered
September leaves in March,
unprepared for the sun, bleary-eyed, pulled from that
dream of the underground railroad – belly full of tunnels,
tunnels full of bloody songs.
And if you were a stone, you would miss the
touch of a palm, the cool of skin that matches you
smoothness for smoothness.
And if you were a window, you would want to be
young forever, crystal clear. In the dusk you would
want to reflect a face.
And if you were an echo, you would miss shoes most
of all, the way you would cradle the fall of a heel and
repeat it to the rafters.
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