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By Adam Katz
Your delicate and gentle hand
Beneath a gum-stuck table lay
Asleep in mine, and dreamed a land
Of lovely immortality.
The air was warm and dimly lit,
And many muffled voices chimed.
The room, the air, the voices knit
A canvas, blank and stretched and primed.
In every book of matches lurked
A can of paint, unopened yet.
The soul of Jackson Pollock smirked
From every unlit cigarette.
The moment vanished as we laughed.
Your head upon my shoulder fell,
As if it cast the final shaft
Of sunlight down the depthless well
Of time. And came our waitress then,
Whose hair was grey and twisted up.
She smiled, sighed, and once again
Refilled each empty coffee cup.
Exhaling smoke, you whispered "yes."
I hardly felt your whisper pass.
The sound began to evanesce
Like breath upon a looking glass.
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007