Holding

What is everyone doing now
    within the lyre-shaped openings
       of their windows; inside the last
room of the house that's curled
    into itself? Are children still
       allowed to venture out past
the fence, past the end of the road?
    Lying on a dish by the entrance, the keys
       we used for opening all sorts of doors.
We still speak to each other about what
    we used to call the future— only with
       more hesitation, disguised as tenderness. 
       

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