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Patrick Errington





Arriving Where I've Never Been                            



In a mosque, maybe, or

a little county church,

or just your

childhood classroom

long after a bell

has tipped it empty

as a jar, leaving

scattered seats

joined at the arm

to desks veined

with misspelled names

and brittle hearts, behind

where a white sun

streaks the windows with

its sticky fingers,

a blind boy with a black tie,

bare feet, and a book

is potted in a dark

corner, with his fingers

pressed so deep into

the brailed grey leaves,

as if he might somehow

root himself there

and grow toward the light



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