We Make Zines

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This Building Talks to Me (poem)

In the morning, when I’m
the first to get here
this building talks to me.

We converse on concrete
and wind causing shear
and if there’s a pipe that leaks.

I check for bruises
and screws that are loosest
or cracks that seem to be spreading

or noises that drop
out of some hidden nook
where there shouldn’t be any.

And it in return
in its stout stoic way
opens its doors for another day.

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