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The Previous Occupant The landlady says he lived here for years. There's enough missing for me to know him. On the empty shelves, absent books gather dust: Neruda. Cavafy. I know he knew their poetry, by heart the lines I love. From a half-torn horoscope I learn his sign: Aquarius, just like me. A half-empty Flexsol in the cabinet: he wore soft lenses. Yes, Aquarians are vain. And no anthems on their lips, they travel great distances. He came from some country as far as Chile. She says the apartment will be cleaned by the 1st: But no detergent will rub his voice from the air though he has disappeared in some country as far as Chile. The stains of his thoughts still cling in phrases to the frost on the windows. And though he is blinded in some prison, though he is dying in some country as far as Chile, no spray will get inside the mirror from where his brown eyes, brown, yes, brown, stare as if for years he'dbeen searching for me. 40 Now that he's found me, my body casts his shadow everywhere. He'll never, never, move out of here. 41 ...

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