Hours
The hours, they are creeping in like windows on an empty house
drinking dust and waiting for a new owner
to live in them. The hours are living in the present. Your presence,
your furniture, your collection of building sketches are
the ones that need repeating.
The hours are fresh-painted walls in a museum, never elsewhere
but white spaces are never anywhere. Safe and sound in a plain view.
Your fingers twisting magic words,
your mind formulating fantasy,
your eyes concentrating.
The ones that need repeating.
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