by the late afternoon sunlight.
I saw a towel
with many dark fingerprints
hanging in the kitchen.
I saw an old apple tree,
a shawl of wind over its shoulders,
inch its lonely way
toward the barren hills.
I saw an unmade bed
and felt the cold of its sheets.
I saw a fly soaked in pitch
of the coming night
watching me because it couldn't get out.
I saw stones that had come
from a great purple distance
huddle around the front door.
---Charles Simic
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