There are hours when every thing creaks
When chairs stretch their arms, tables their legs
And closets crack their backs, incautiously

Fed up with the polite fantasy
Of having to stay in one place
And stick to their stations

Humans too, at work, or in love
Know such aches and growing pains
When inner furnishings defiantly shift

As decisively, and imperceptibly, as a continent
Some thing will stretch, croak or come undone
So that everything else must be reconsidered

One restless dawn, unable to suppress the itch
Of wanderlust, with a heavy door left ajar
Semi-deliberately, and a new light teasing in

Some piece of immobility will finally quit
Suddenly nimble on wooden limbs
As fast as a horse, fleeing the stable.

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