Summer 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 2000 |

Adam Imagines Moving

One gets used to everything, it's painful to recognize the skill we have at it what we really desire is to be alive in somebody's eyes we line up to be remembered in the bedroom when the bed is taken out, there is the old floor showing the honey-brown of the old pine boards in the shape of the bed surrounded by a glossy field, a garden plot of green-going-to-black one of the spaces to be dispensed with, disposed of utterly, and helpless against being returned to to walk through the dark doors and find we are not in has to be watched out for, there are rules for this kind of thing, severe penalties once we exceed the boundaries of the general unhappiness whatever is lost or out of place of the places we lived in—I don't mean the ordinary landscapes of a house, lightfall in a room, or the peculiar echoes of closets, earth smell of basements, water stains shaded and contoured to the shapes of a woman's face, a map, or nothing but a water st

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