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All of the old buildings that surround itwith their embellishments,their frills, their flauntings,have turned away, embarrassedby how nakedlyoutside       outside is here.At night especially,nothing is not exposedto whatever it isthat's looking outfrom within the rising of the set backor jutting, many angledbrick and concrete largeto small to smaller openingsthat swallowwhatever light they cast.At Washington and State,the wide brick stairs lead up to wide brick stairsup to the brickedexpanse, the brick field of the benchless plazaedged here and there by lampposts whose lightspotlights the little public treesthat tremble leaflessand raw in stone tubsfor everyonewho isn't thereto see.


If you were there, walking,you wouldn't be able to tellthe sound of other footstepscoming toward youwere your own.You'd have to hurry not to feelthe feeling of what it isyou're being toldabout the feeling of beinglooked at, looked through, trackedby every brickand concreteangle of the opaqueopenings you can't look up at       intoas you hurry past.

By Alan Shapiro

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