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In the Window of Left Bank Books

Jamaica in the window sits, 
a shadow whose emerald gaze 
turns not towards conjectures nor
stories set into fresh wood pulp--
as we, when children pressed our toes
and fingers into virginal
cement, seeking even then some
vestigial immortality--
rather she seems more interested
in the transient poetry 
and the works-in-progress of the
people passing by; who is to 
nominate the wiser, she or 
I, stalking connections within
the pages of other's visions?