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my inner wall keeps silent;

a shadeless window or lamp

burns at the very edge—

from here it’s hard to make out,

I can just hear creaking stones

brick muttering to brick

pull me closer

—my wall keeps silent, and I am still

from Letters to YakubFind more by Gleb Shulpyakov at the library

Copyright © 2014 Gleb Shulpyakov
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

Published in Gleb Shulpyakov Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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