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Sometimes it only takes an hour of work
to turn immortal. On Sunday evening
she clicked her musty, beer-battered case closed
and Monday morning drove to Joliet.
She took her seat and propped up the carved wood,
crowded by scrawny chairs with brawny arms.
As the body groaned in strife, notes echoed
the sentiments scrawled on the neat cell walls.
Next day word breached her, a fact of friction —
one in attendance concussed another
“because of the Mozart.” He had anchored
a foot and planted an orbital rose.
The root of all: vibrations in the rare,
and each figure dimensioned by their ground.
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