In the window the reflection of windows and an artist's broom
that reminds me of sweeping the driest patch of butter chamisa's
withered stars, and blue flecks of screen door sloughing off
slapping hard against its crumbling frame from the shrinking
with no rain on this particular path as I look both ways
to cross the street against the warm day of dusty wind and
the way the world makes a window of everything.
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