Some nights I think you want too much. From me. I didn’t ask
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to parse again your idioms of littered
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parking lots your chain-linked crane-hung sites
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limp again through your crime-scene-festooned streets
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to buildings I used to live in. Lose my nerve
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at a wrong door on the wrong floor
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in search of a time. The precision of dream is not
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such a privilege. I know those hallways tiled in patterns
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of oriental rugs those accordion-pleated
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elevator gates. Know by heart the chipped
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edges on some of those tiles. You who require this
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heart-squandering want me wandering you, craving
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to press a doorbell hear a lock turn, a bolt slide back
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—always too much, over and over back
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to the old apartment, wrong again, the key maybe
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left with a super who rules the dream and will not be found
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