Strange to plunge my arm 
into the bog earth 
and pull out a book 
 
Stranger still to begin 
the process of analyzing 
the pages, each word, each 
 
individual waterlogged 
flourish. My backyard 
is a burial ground 
 
for printed matter, unopened 
deposits, lovers' knots, 
rest-in-peace, forget-me-not 
 
portraits wriggling at my 
fingertips. In the sunlight 
I clean and wipe, 
 
preserve what's ...

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