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You gave me
a book about France;
a farmhouse in Provence
But I won’t read it–
there are too many
other new, unread tomes
around this moribund library
of a home, all growing dust;
words waiting for a reader
not likely to see
the light of day–
for a while, if ever…
So I’ll have to imagine
the sleeping chapters
anecdotes & incidents
that will spend the rest
of the summer, autumn
and winter, lonely there
up on the shelf–
You probably think
I plunged in, and am
amusing myself
with the colorful tales of sheep
truffle hunting and long
afternoon meals in the vineyard–
but I’m not in that story
being too busy & concerned
most of the time
in this wordy chaos
of my own.
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