She must have something better to do than read old poems, a
poor man’s banquet spread out on a table for her to devour, one tiny tidbit at
a time, filling herself up with feelings long vanquished by time and experience,
this parade of images that once meant too much and have lost their charm to the
harshness of age, some poems like great wine get better when left for years in
the vault, most don’t, and it is difficult to distinguish which is which and
wish to simply bury with the emotions from which they were created, though she
clearly can’t get enough of what once was, might have been, yet never became.
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