Kate Dunn: Margin

This evening comes like Germania

to my rented house:

reticently the sun has left in the cold

behind two towers of stacked homes across the street

and leaves benumbed light in the window well, which flickers

just into my bedroom, and only into the wastebasket.

The dwarf hamster wakes then in his cage.

Along the nebulous oak chest

the odor of lost mildew

fetters in the corners of crumbling legs.

My eyes darken, then glow upon unmarked books.

The day has spared one translucent spider

who drifts from the lit lamp.

I will conquer

when the hamster conquers the wheel.

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