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197 J. D. mCCl AtChy The Bookcase My empty bookcase yawns and rises from its paint job, white asphalt newly laid over a grid of back streets, the chill of what assurance supports it all still in the air, no music, no voices. Who wants to live with what he knows? While I sit on the storage boxes, my double’s slowly making his way among shop windows and bloody altars, holding pages to the light, changing sex to distance himself from force or faithfulness, the household demons. It’s late. Opportunities are multiplying. I am what I did? I am what I wait for? I feel something returning, like a book put back on the shelf, slid between names like mine, my story, my fault. ...

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