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a poem acquainted with all the
usual arguments
A continuous blank wall, broken here and there by a
colorful door,
twists free from one’s sense that
enclosure is everywhere the default form
the loose urban fabric of the modern
would hang itself upon, as though it
were a word uttered and then entered
into, a game of riddles whose origin
one might refute with the most
difficult of questions: does anyone know one?
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