Let's congregate under this steeple
Assembled over the continuity of form
Another weekly tryst,
A strange nexus of sorts
But from my third floor tenement
When rain drums the streetcars
and sidewalks, fills the gullies
I sit and contemplate our fate
Who are you, sleeping
On the couch below?
A sister, a mother, a lover?
Every woman rolled into one?
There is comfort in this blurry window,
This warm hand,
The slow rotation of our sphere
On its own tiny self

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