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The Tilelayer arrives too early, plays bad seventies radio music too loud, smokes weed but says Jesus saved him from smack and burglary, and tries to save recalcitrant me over coffee and shredded wheat. Fifty-six, he says, proud of veined arms and young man's waist, hands hard as claws. You're kidding, I say, though his brown eyes are old as light and pain. When I return that evening he's already gone and the bathroom floor has become a shimmering pattern, cobalt and bone white, flawed and fine, the silent echo of a single word in the heart of hard matter. |
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Issue #8, April, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.