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ISSUE:  Summer 1982
I long for some, even
one would be a beginning,
not this long flat stretch
of just me and my improvising
of waste, of a kind of heroic
negligence that life does not
appreciate. My loved one
is wobbling—O creme de menthe!
See, I am making my own
interference, jerked stratagem—
her overcoat, my cottage.
Why are we so bad? I hear them
faintly knocking, neutral ducks,
and I am reprimanded.
I am thinking “scalloped potatoes”
are of absolutely no use.
I’m thumping my canteen
and pointing at my nose.
Yes, I lied about “her,”
there wasn’t one, but for
that moment a gourd drifted
down the chimney on the pretext
of weeding a peninsula
and nourishing the articulation
of a single bud. Am I forgiven?
Forgotten? This is the constellation
of my own bewilderment. Please,
someone interrupt me.
Hence, whatever, reverts.


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