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  • Curtains

    How vain
    To want to join the ranks of illiterate dead,
    Who are written about but can't read,
    And who write nothing
    With their slack hands.

    No one to entertain,
    They crouch quietly under beds,
    Or hang with the coats on the backs of doors,
    Bothering the hinges
    Unsexed, bored, and uncertain.

    It's a mug's game,
    Hovering in hallways with bowed heads,
    Trying to pick up pens, unable to feed,
    Fingers limp like fringes
    On vulgar curtains.

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