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By Jack Joseph Smith
Chandelier
In the Autumn of nineteen sixty three
I would be walking from The Goodman Institute
through the neighborhoods, in the early evening,
approaching Old Town Chicago
There when the drapes were not drawn
Pulled rather way back
Thresholds away from any door
Billowed right to the molding
Teasing a to there sills
Faulkner's, the shadow of the sash,
came to mind
Silence is not deaf
Maybe rich & poor used to feel
That both God And stars crashed
in the universe