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Bart Edelman 37 THE LOFT Atop the stairs The little loft sits, Empty in the sunlight Summer left behind. Old shadows crawl Across bare walls And disappear from sight. The dusty wooden floor Cracks no more under shoes Whose soles once taught Each groove to speak. The tightly closed window Refuses to open, Its crank broken— Another season of use; And the stale air Smells vaguely familiar, Redolent of work Yet to be done. ...

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