The warm city. An old friend. Some spirits are roomy and
         welcoming. Buildings barely swaying in their emptiness. Foreign
         people on the street. I cannot understand them. The desire
         for words, identities. A sprawling system of urban parks.
         Children rolling. My heart fills with those wanted words. Warmth
         like a summery holiday afternoon. The simple closing
         of eyes, and then following, sleep.

         Going away again. Coming back like oneself. Your still legs
         that once spoke for you. Your new shallow breath coming back.
         A legacy of correct observations. The painterly landscape,
         the oily, well-lit distance. Some may stay in sandy retreats. You
         come back restful, move slowly, see the swaying of the bridges
         as you do. You and your last dog looking back at each other
         in silent understanding.

         Repairs I remember. Frail screen doors. The need for attention.
         A female piping plover, fenced off with her eggs in her nest
         in the sand. The opposite of attention. Some windows stick
         in obstinate silence. The death rattle of houses. What weather
         there is sinks in. The sound of water penetrating dreams. Cars
         on gravel. Your desire to cook. Your wall of old paintings.
         The front and back of the house change places.

         When walls were painted red. When the phrenology bust
         first stood bodiless in the dining room. When award statues
         hid in the hallway. When the small yard was quiet. When
         the streets were made wider. When nurses arrived in the elevator.
         When the wine came up. When we first met. When the other
         rooms were empty. When you read these words. When
         one finds a poem, a new door, a coda ending.

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