with patterns

he struggling now with patterns, all
these shapes and corners, somewhere
is his home; i know, i’ve seen him on
the street or on this bench, and so i
lead him to the green door round the
way; the shapes and patterns: crosses
on the door, and in the windows; plants
that hang from fraying ropes; and calendars
of years and years before that line the
walls within a paneled room he calls a
study. then he thanks me, and i go, only
to see an hour hence, he’s back again, and
struggling with patterns, all these shadows that
mislead a man, and make him think that time has
been more kind

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