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ISSUE:  Autumn 1982

Nonsense, you’ve got everything
to live for. Fields of alfalfa
and red verbena, right outside
your door. A weathervane
eternally indicates velvet
in the wind. You’ve got a stake
in respiration, it’s always
been popular. Yet, you’re alone—
set back from the brotherhood
like some old viking. You draw
on your face every morning
and it still dissolves.
You must be spoiled, crowned
with too much—princess
of the prison. Unlucky succulent:
pounded into the soil,
donating cold blood. Will you decline,
or will you dine in one of Hades”
warmest coves? Survive.
I’ll hide you, cooped up
under my wings of sheer, rosy cloth.
Let’s take a little ride.
Don’t let go. Surely, you’ve spent
enough time, outside the house of suicide.

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