Seeing Things -- Charles Cantalupo

The missing panes
On an abandoned greenhouse
Still reflect the dusk.

No one in the youth orchestra
Misses a note
When the lights go out.

Ready to go,
An old man holds a closed atlas
On a Monday morning.

Traffic pounds the bridge,
And round stones
Line the river far below.

Painted on the coffin's inside,
The sun from between her legs
Departs through her arms.

SbuQ nr'esu kfu'e nr'esu.
Your good comes back to you,
And your bad does, too.

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