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Bric-a-brac

On a day you open the door
Hanging upon a keyhole
All those epitomes of yourself
Lying on your doorstep
May merry the hurricane take twist turn
To blow you up
To knock knock knock you down
To ra ta ra ta ta ta ra ta all your preconceptions
About middle age middle class middle life

You might find among these things
A violin key choked by an articulation problem
Once the cords turned into the wires of your cage

Or a message from under the ground
Written on your roots unsettled

The seeds of question marks you sowed
To reap the punctuation of the universe

Or get a correction paper informing you
You were not the exception
To the spelling rule of your time

Memories of the past redoubling their proportions
Into a gigantic foot to shatter the walls standing
Behind your opening

A piece of a door handle
With a no key sign post
A souvenir you took
On the first class of a course in semiotics
You so patiently attended

Bits of I-ness detained
Your mandala corners still hiding
The hour when you carried out
A punishment haircut
An innermost must
In line with a trendy growth
Of your outer personality thin layer

You might turn the whole event
Into a peaceful understanding that
You are a decision
To either put the pieces of the puzzle together
Or finally sweep your backyard
There'll be no use moving home

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