Blank Wall On the drowsing above-bed wall I caught them Stealing out – like a rook or bishop mid-move – fir trees, Their long faces stooped on shrapnel chins, leaping Away from the headlights of a somnambulist car passing; Then quickly as if to cover up the slip, crouch Against any one of four edges until Behind me, the streetlight flickers back on Offering to read my face – A neat black blot on blank wall. Rhea Johnson
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