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Night Walking

Herbert Scott

The nose
of an oboe

a wedge of light
through an open door

darkness
pried apart

I walk through
the residential night

a kind
of breathing

voices
of houses

the street
a patient silence

and that long, thin
reed of music

a stranger
I nod to

fingers pigeoned
in front pockets

elbows flapping
as though

it were
my song.