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Falls to the floor, comes to the door.

That arrival, a foretaste of which appalls some, assumed its rightful place as a statistic. "I don't suppose you ... No," I snapped, "nor at the opera, with the slush outside. It seems to me a mildewed brick has been planted in my path that wasn't there when I last looked ... but when was that? Why keep the charade up, if it matters so little, like a tiny window or a bit of missing veneer." Then I get my hopes up. So much gets sorted out in coming, like the spring cleaning you always dreamed of. What, me? It's as though an elf on a charger commanded me to lie on my back, under the tree whose trunk is swelling, becoming the world, it may be. And I have galaxies to turn out, into the street, in knickers, anywhere, so long as they be going ... One reads how another one's kinsman has inherited a vast estate in Scotland. The things that happen to other people! Surely it was only a minute ago I caught you in a lapsed prayer that was answered, you said it yourself. I, from this shelf whence I see no land, not even space, can yet recall how the ducks danced under their umbrella.
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Author:Ashbery, John
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
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