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David St. John 19 WELCOME / David St. John Never is anyone else At home. In the village they Will tell you I'm religious, or dull, Distracted by the smallest, first Movement of the dust Rising in the wash of sunlight Through the trees. My butter goes Flat and sour; My cheese wears the bad green And speckled complexion of the leper In his hood of wax. Even Those goats my father left to me Are dry as gloves. The dog will lick Your shoes, which is nice Except he will not stop. The fire Is ash. There is no More wood and no forest I would cut To burn. Yet, without you, I would let The clothes mold right off My body. I would let the birds walk away From their eaves, into that sky Heaving its ice. Nothing else matters. Without you, things grow worse Than they seem. Please, Now that you are here, come in. ...


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