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22 Returning Home The whispers of the house are not our own; They’re of our absence, air unbreathed, dead moths. It’s musty here. Our old thoughts stretch and yawn Like wakened dogs.We start where we left off, Go for a walk, reclaim familiar streets, Bring in the customary flowers, fill The laundry basket, rest on unchanged sheets, Pull dandelions by twilight, sort the mail. From far away, the usual doors slam tight, And nothing seems to alter, till a breath Of jasmine sweetly stealing through the night Is beautiful enough. It’s all that’s left Of wonderment, entangled in the hedge, Beside the frankness of the window’s dust, The moonlit candor of its peeling ledge, The old wood rotting, as, of course, it must. ...

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