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Dreadful Helper by Michael Opperman

Little that can be seen from the window,
A terrible chimney, candles at the boutique.
Though the hand is moving slow —

Brushing dust from the bottles
(Revealing labels not to be believed, Pharmicist),
Everything is a rushed blur.

The life is a bruised eye;
A morning is nothing more than an evening
knocked down a flight of stairs.


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