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He is dead tired.
He knows only the major directions, the big four.
Even then, he knows them only through force of habit.
Together we don't know why
This step brings us closer, that step carries us away.
He doesn't like the look of my hair, bumps me on the escalator.
I could be his son, his daughter's object of affection.
They all know, pinstripes and pantyhose, prodded to wade across 7th Avenue
by a white lamp on post clicking ignorant patterns.
We do not exchange good byes, do not shed tears.
Fine with me. Our connection is contrived in my mind, on this page,
not deep but shallow. Just a possibility on the prairie where each grass blade
Is possibility. to crack and burn, regenerate in cow shit, die
Beneath boot heels and rain.

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Free Williamsburg | 93 Berry Street | Brooklyn, NY 11211
[email protected] | May 2000 | Volume 5