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Poetry #10
(published Late in the Year, 2000)
by Nicholas Buzanski

I look out now,
Past the laundry
         To the landscape
Trenches taped off.

We can return to everything
We don't understand.

Awake (as if you are the one
Here under orange shadows
Cast by the midnight,
Impeccable lines
On a sleeping ceiling
(on resting walls)
Around us.

Breaths match
(awakened and asleep)
Leaving, worrisome,
Need unsure of itself:
         Afraid of want.

Will knowledge only come
When we are broken
         (these dreams
         of trains),
When 'rooms outlast (us).'

     So what will become
     Of rooms?

My hair rests in my hands
And your book has fallen open
To the page you last read
And have read over a thousand times
While I tread through words.

And now you grow tearful
                 (And afraid)
So do I.
As I hold you
Under evening's even view,

Your shirt sliding up,
Quietly exposing
Each thread has been spun
And spun
And grown in unknown places
         To make this silk

     That covers
     Your skin.

What will become of this time
(all the unknown)
That lies somewhere
In your eyes

And outside of us

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