I want to go back to the way I lived before—
when I turned and I’d be turning to a wall of books-
as-mirror, not entering a note-shack,
wanteds, want-yous, for-sale lists, lists of
meetings in space, which is nowhere,
a time when I had a pine floor to wander
when I stood in boredom
and boredom was good, a cool drink
I took in so I could return to work
refreshed, no hope, just the secret
negotiations with hope taking place, all those
spines, dust motes, real knots in real wood.