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Poem	What we want is never simple. We move among the things we thought we wanted: a face, a room, an open book and these things bear our names-- now they want us. But what we want appears in dreams, wearing disguises. We fall past, holding out our arms and in the morning our arms ache. We don't remember the dream, but the dream remembers us. It is there all day as an animal is there under the table, as the stars are there even in full sun.
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