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The Blue Chair

The blue chair
by the window:
we wonder that it is.

The chair, the lamp,
the glass vase —
all just there.

in the desert,
how is it that they are?

They speak
with quiet insistence:
being is happening.

Why they don’t crumble
into dust, into less than dust,
we’ll never know.

As a man on a windy day
holds on to his hat,
being holds on to itself.

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