Exit Wound

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Grease the window.

I need to slip out

And a catch a train

In my butterfly net.

Yet where was I

When you weren’t here?

There in the kitchen, laughing

And talking with friends

Our murmuring wafting

Through the house

Like delicious, aromatic

Ethnic cooking on the anniversary

Of a national tragedy.

Then I remembered your list.

Innumerable, Whitmanesque.

And realized I was really late for that train.

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