The dry brush outside my window is ruffled by
An unassuming wind.
Muffled voices enter the yellow door.
Paul says that a life needs direction
Like a trellis wants a vine.
I adjust the thermostat and
As the vents hum and whir,
I wonder whether judgment
Is the necessary successor to vision,
Whether certainty burdens knowledge,
The shell on a turtle's back.
The voices in the living room are a homogeneous wall
A shaft of light enters the window
Touches on the brush
Illuminates the keyboard.

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