When I sit down to write
in an unfamiliar room
and there’s a mirror over the desk,
when I can see
that same old raccoon looking at me,
shaggy thief with his paws full of
things worth saying, things I can’t get at
and that would be utterly different
if ever I could hold them —
I almost die laughing, choking on the words:
old bear,
there are so many places like home.
Dark Matter 
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