Charles Simic
And again the screech of the scaffold
High up there where all our thoughts converge:
Lightheaded, hung
By a leather strap,
Twenty stories up
In the chill of late November
Wiping the grime
Off the pane, the many windows
Which have no way of opening,
Tinted windows mirroring the clouds
That are like equestrian statues,
Phantom liberators with sabers raised
Before these dark offices,
And their anonymous multitudes
Bent over this day's
Wondrously useless labor.
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