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You stand preening in the driveway, covered in dirt
Tools sound: physical, pollutant, predisposed
I do not resent the symphony—I’m in a pleasure to die for
A shape I’m preoccupied to draw
I hold emanations of wonder and wrong
It is a list of words, edified alphabetically
This is the quotation of our agreement
Though the world has been headless and insulated
I am a window seen from the sidewalk
Floating indications of season and real glory
Suspended above the same sidewalk where you stand
To remember is to face significant feeling
To know what is miraculous might prohibit such taste
Again, an engineer flares the machinery
To know I am writing for you turns us equally inorganic
Not blame, but a game where who wins is set from the start
We had reached across the median for an instant
To give delight, definitions superimpose on terms
Terms replaced with movement, there was no use for uttering
We, all body, knew how much salt, a table setting
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