we keep turning the pages, hoping for something,
something like mercy or change,
a black line that would bind us
or keep us apart.
the way it is, it would seem
the book of our lives is empty.
the furniture in the room is never shifted,
and the rugs become darker each time
our shadows pass over them.
it is almost as if the room were the world.
we sit beside each other on the couch,
reading about the couch.
we say it is ideal.
it is ideal
Mark Strand
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