This borrowed room
won’t borrow its light from a moon
hidden from sight
behind a plain, black rectangle, but a slight
glow sneaks in at the fringe.
I like to look at that fringe.
My neighbor is
scratching. He is
scraping the wall
with a chalk
piece’s quick jumps, and
its languid swirls. I can
merely guess at
the alibis he writes on its flat
backside.
When will the scraping die
down?
It dies down.
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