. . . And turned, therefore,
to the expected silence of a page,
where I might simultaneous assert
and hide, be my own disappointment,
which saved me for a while.
But soon the page whispered
I'd mistaken its vastness for a refuge
its whiteness for a hospital
for the pathetic. Fill me up, it said
give me sorrow because I must have joy,
all the travails of love because
distances are where the safe reside.
Bring to me, it said, continuous proof
you've been alive.
— from Turning to the Page
by Stephen Dunn
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