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Laundry Lines

Why watch? All shades are pulled
though a tv once flew
from that window there
falling silent through the air
in the wake of bitter words

In the courtyard
fisherwomen reel
I can only see their hands,
imagine they feel soft as oysters,
pulling at the sheets
that snap and billow and
sound like homemade aluminum thunder.

Parading t-shirts in a conga-line
shimmy away the afternoon
and I wish I could watch forever.
By four p.m., the lines are shorn.
Not a sock—I squint and stare—
not one little undershirt in the air.

When the ironing's done
the women sleep,
and I will lay with them awhile,
dreams tethered to earth
by a hundred laundry lines.

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