Just looking at themI grow greedy, as if they werefreshly baked loaveswaiting on their shelvesto be broken open–that oneand that–and I make my choicein a mood of exalted luck,browsing among themlike a cow in sweetest pasture.For life is continuousas long as they waitto be read–these inked pathsopening into the future, pageafter page, every bookits own receding horizon.And I hold them, one in each hand,a curious ballast weighing mehere to earth.

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