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3 Celetna Street
I see your face,
shaped like a butterfly in the photo in
 Kafka in Prague.
The dusty stairs and stone arches.
The materiality of day
breaks bones.
In the night, you wrote
while your sister's argued.
The intensified circle of thought.
Bohemian lace.
A cup of tea, a pool of gratitude,
before it sectionalizes.
Such a city holds earth,
prime, the ash. The reversals.
Your letters mailed from a brass box
near the door.
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