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Windows in the bottom of a barn,
Frames in decay and caulking like chalk,
Evening so quiet, just the doves and the ghosts,
Drawn to old windows as if they were portals,
As if we could see what lies ahead, but all
We can see are reflections of what's at our backs,
Except where the glass has been broken,
And there, only darkness, there, only night
Beyond the jagged now,
So maybe we have.
