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ISSUE:  Spring 1976
I choose lavender
to slay the Hindu’s tongue,
charming me to rise upon
my coils, a secret flute.

Money is the object
fastened to
our poverty of feeling.
We kiss in pennies,
nickels, dimes,
scorning our eucharist—
our sodden bread
minted in wine,
gone dead,
gone hunting
in the nursing home of night.

This cup is mine.
In offering to change it,
you deprive me of shoots,
disarming flowers,
an empty tomb.

It is time
for introductions to be made:
I am fiction
born in fact,
harboring a science
of concealed weaponry.

I am pleased
to meet a study
for the prize.


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