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Listen
The man on the forklift
With the star
Tattoo
Keeps papers
Beside him
Writes when no
One is looking
At four
A woman arises
White specter
Through the house
To gather words
Left like gifts
At the door
Of sleep
The teacher takes
A notebook
From her locked
Desk
Makes poems
As neighborhoods rush
By her bus window
Everywhere at odd
Hours someone
Is writing and their words
Are your words
The same conjunctions
Words are all
We have--talk at the corner
Station, the legends on subway
Cars, the clatter of dishes
In a convent kitchen
Remembered thirty years
Machinery grinding away
At itself
Dry leaves
Clapping
Something pulls us
Into words
Loneliness
Caught
In the throat
Clumsy invitation
To pull up a chair
And listen.
Listen.
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