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Elevator shaft where the string quartet lived and worked;

swallowed and making the best of it.

On old days when I return light keeps flagrant promises

in wet folds, newsprint parts the meaning of love.

You forgive each tiny miracle,

stale coffee poking a hole in a stray cup.

I follow your bottom to the top of winding stairs;

sheets run like blue fish.

Naked, we step together around pine trees, prying

into the walls, the music forgetting to breathe.

Never faithful, the sky beyond the window

survives in a different way.