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When there are no windows,
when in spite, when underneath
the basement surges.

When pageless, when I stand up finally
in order to face myself and because of brightness
do not need a mirror, when I stand up and think

a phone call would help
and I call my brother who asks,
have you gotten up the stairs?

Have I gotten up the stairs? Yes,
I have gotten up the stairs of my body, and yes,
I can look out the window, and yes, I see.

I see my pagelessness come to surface. I see illness
is a type of speaking more uttered, more visible,
in short, more true. Yes, I’ll go back down again,

when in the kitchen a happiness pickles.
When priested and given up.
When by force the lovely creature weeps.