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 For nothing else that I have any name for Could have invaded and so mastered me With a slow tolerance that eventually Assumed a blind ascendency of custom That saw not even itself. When I came in, Often I'd find him strewn along my couch Like an amorphous lizard with its clothes on, Reading a book and waiting for its dinner. His clothes were always odiously in order, Yet I should not have thought of him as clean— Not even if he had washed himself to death Proving it. There was nothing right about him. Then he would search, never quite satisfied, Though always in a measure confident, My eyes to find a welcome waiting in them, Unwilling, as I see him now, to know That it would never be there. Looking back,