Doors for other People

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Let us take some tea and talk of absurdities.
So say the Chinese and live urbanely.
In summer nights of hollowed velvet
I am alone in my cone of netting.
The moon is cold slats through the blinds;
it wavers light streaks on the wall
and falls to zebra patterns on the carpet.
How close to important thoughts I am.
For many hours they kick in my head
then limp away into the rustling bushes
and the curtains blow listlessly.
Better perhaps if I could be a simple person
content to be comforted by tinkling conversation.

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