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I am visiting the books, abiding among them awhile, not bothering them—they are all at peace On the polished shelves, even The Great War and Modern Memory. A person can be a burden To a book, I am mindful of this, especially the kind who reads fiercely and makes notes in the margins. I will leave them alone for awhile. I thought I might review what Plato wrote about the Republic, Then consult Diderot and Rousseau on the citoyen, but the stacks are their own nation, a geography Of consciousness, so many dead minds mapped in high relief against the silence, my brothers and sisters in their bound Domain. There are powers among them, but no tyrants. None of them is unfair or foreign to the others. In this room I throw away my useless passport. I will be anonymous in my heavy body, paper-white. Left too long On a table in the sun, I am coming a little unglued.