The new houses wore gingham insulation and brick tweed
It wasn't quite a Sunday, there was no longer a paddock
Blue sky, like an advertisment, spread behind them
The clasp of a suburban cloak printed like a magazine
Whose pages once could be flown over but now
Wrinkle and desaturate in the corner of the library
Or the back shelves of the used bookstore, not quite
Literature, just the residue of memory
Smelling not quite pleasant, seedy paper and ink still
Selling new houses dressed in insulation and tweed.
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