You are dusty vinyl to my soul
I see your image
in a factory Matisse
that hangs over me
like a promised judgment,
a voice emphatic
to remind
the shaggy-bear
the
lumber-lurcher
the trip-and-stagger
making clumsy groans
upon the earth
You leave me only
the broken voice of
self-reproach, having
learned to speak
obscurely but not well.
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