I seek solace in the company of cafe tables
and black aprons. Hair that sways, liquidly, 
under a rotating fan. I write in the company
of strangers, in order to be myself. 
As if I could hear the words from their lips 
instead of feel the conversation like a forest. 
As if it could not matter when the forest was on fire
or still, peaceful in dew dreams under a rising sun. 
So many things exclusive in their tandem 
and yet, so much, unsaid and unstayed. Will the fawn
never leave the safety of her rose hollow? Will the fox 
never scamper when he hears the bellow of hounds? 

What is natural and what is escapism—
as if the two could not be more similar. 

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