like dust collecting under the stove
and in the corners of this room,on a chair, on the books and a window sill
the air is laden with it,
with dry, weightless words(that drift around and around),
with the besotted cries of the alleys below,
the tap tapping hum of air-conditioner vents
and the ceaseless run of cars
it lies thick on the city’s pale face
and still it covers all with despair—like a jacket hung over a chair
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