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ISSUE:  Spring 2008

The only home you ever had.
No bigger than a matchbox—
Or else as vast as the sky full of stars—
With you as the sole tenant
Grateful for a fleabite to scratch
As you sit recalling the night
Someone knocked on your door.

You were afraid to open, but when you did,
There she was asking to borrow a candle.
You told her you didn’t have one.
The two of you stood face-to-face
Between two dark apartments
Unable to think of anything to say
Before turning your backs on each other.


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