The last term in my last year of college sputtered

out in a week-long fusillade of examinations and research papers.

There was a last paper on FDR’s presidency for which

I would have to make one exasperating last visit to

the library, the dead core of my education, the white,

silent kernel of every empty Saturday I had spent trying

to ravish the faint charms of the study of accounting.

So I came around the concrete corner that gave way

to the granite steps of the library.  I entered and

asked the librarian for two books I had on reserve.

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Paraphrases from The Mysteries of Pittsburgh by Michael Chabon.

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