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Not even one lousy poem.

The City won't spit back one lousy poem

to relieve the stench of urine in the subway.

(I never thought I could stare so long without a

single thought or strength for anger.)

All the apartments are left like confused old people.

Everyone is walking around, too hot to stay still.

And today someone peed in the kosher bakery

even though there were women and children in the store.

(There is a force moving this city,

it is the dance of the dead,

an army of people,

marching straight home to bed.)

APRIL 1979

The morning is always sad and golden.

Silence accumulates around my mouth.

The clouds blow over the mountains.

The mist doesn't lift.

And what about the sadness in the eyes?

Love that happens without swellings?

The velvet ropes of silence,

tunnels of ether and hands...

How can I face the walls, the pencils, and

the smell of my own body for one more day?

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