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thursday

Barred iron balconies dripping with light,
melted snow, over the avenue in the afternoon.
Golden pink on the cathedral against a paling blue that I see looking up
as I’m walking inside to hear Slavoj Zizek talk about God.
And just before, after I crest the sidewalk from the underground: trees lining snow-kissed hills in the park across the boulevard, wildness beckoning –
Animal heart, caught in the mind of flat asphalt,
salivating at the chancest happening of sky amid grids of glass and steel.

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