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 the Want room I want to unshroud my desire for desire, now that I’ve plumbed midlife where nothing nimbles the heart numbed, so that the most I can do is long for longing, hanker for rank hunger, thirst for raw thirst. I want to kneel at the foot of this desk, bed, door and pray I can still pray for something. That the blood and breath of this body can still rise and pant for someone. That even if it’s taken all day to unfold these few minutes accordioned in before I snap on the bodysuit of Mother, the Goodly Housewife at the sofa, the table, the range, that the Want Room will still open for me with my blunted key: a yearning to turn in the welter, crash through the soundproofed, blind look unstuck. That I can crave time for time, lust for lust, hope for hoping I awaken each day, wanting to want. ...

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