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And Yet*

It's true, we carry the world inside us, Always present like light. And yet, this hilltop where the sun sits, Heavy and red, every evening; My house shuttered now, the gravel courtyard Sprouting weeds; myself, woefully transient, My suitcase packed, listening for My neighbor who will take me to the train, And the stillness mobbing past, Strangely clamorous and thick, It's true, I know. And yet, and yet!

Paul Zweig