Query

It is about change -
these disbeliefs that come?

In the white architecture displaying itself
when curtains are taken down -
the pure rectangles of glass in narrow frames?

Or in the transformation by a new-built dock -
rocks becoming support, no longer
a hazard on the shore?

Or in the tree that rots and falls,
letting in shafts of light before imprisoned,
opening to and from a wider sky?

And is it change - or rearrangement,
this silence when the revelers have gone?

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