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Window Washer

ISSUE:  Autumn 1977

And again the screech of the scaffold
High up there where all our thoughts converge:
Lightheaded, hung
By a leather strap,

Twenty stories up
In the chill of November air,
Wiping the grime
Off the pane, the windows

Which have no way of opening—
Those windows with their brooding interiors,
That figure who lets the light in,
One imponderable stroke at a time.


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