As in a mirror
Your face steadily there
The magic of a clean house is
It is and will not appear
No one can see into it
Although the chair is here
The rug is here yet it
Resists, does not appear
Even family framed in photos
Something’s always gone
Something’s left to which
You cannot respond
Children, say, or their shadows
Gathered by a lake
What was the name
Canandaigua? And then that’s clear
As a refrain is clear
Rising toward you who listen
Closely in houses
That do not appear
from Clean
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