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Thursday, August 4, 2016

The Smell of Cigarette Smoke in an Empty Room




To promise the poet atonement is
To promise more than you know….
It is a kind of suicide
The bliss of the bleeding throat—
A kind of assassination or…

 Why am I here
right now
In this room?
I don’t even know what I came to the kitchen to get—
It wasn’t a knife or a glass of anything.
Was it the question I find unsought
between the dirty dishes and compost?
If I can’t remember what I was after, why
can I remember that there was a quest
and I was on it?

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