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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.