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A N O T H E R B R O T H E R He keeps looking at that window, shut still, but he keeps touching the glass where a spidery crack almost opens it. He keeps tapping it there and sometimes I see him press the seams where the putty’s gone, just to feel it sharp. He’s not looking out, but in, the other side is as opaque as a mirror, nothing nothing nothing. What birds see? He bumps it, knocks himself to sleep sometimes, sometimes his head hurts. Seated, his hands lie level with the ledge. A plant could tendril its way in, the window is open so long. He takes seasons to find its weeping light. I think the pane reflects his shine, the polish that comes to people who keep looking. Could wind be whistling against it? He doesn’t say. His hands lift to the sill, in greeting. 76 ...

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