Peek into and out of a drafty window,
Fully knowing its brittle protection:
Navy drapes hang, crooked, cruelly
admitting midnight and streetlight.
Crane and peer for some relic or talisman in the empty cul de sac--
Roving eyes glow in the dimness and roll
Like a mad dog's, but there is no lather or fuss, only the hush of the draft, it's whispered imperatives.
And the memory of once translating that rush of air into power, or verse.
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