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Rainy SundayWith a carton of old photosyou're looking for clues again. You call me in to see you at twelve, skinny little ant-boy on a bike. With a gust of laughter you exclaim, what an asshole! for the pouffy hair you had and the white jacket with no shirt the summer of eighty four. But happy! such tender stoned smiles you had there, for instance, on a fishing boat, blue-eyed, tan-chested hard nicks of muscle between ribs iridescent along the outline like a plum. Happy. Now you're lost smiling back into an expression so implacably soft I think you've unreeled to a time years before me, stolen off to share a laugh with the boy you were who baits you from these snapshots with that recurrent smile, with a silent, hilarious punch-line. An inside joke he knew would really get a laugh from the man you've become. 1999 |
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Issue #15, April, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.