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By David Hunter Sutherland
You occur in random sequels,
speak in exclusives,
talk a torpid metaphor,
unhinge each strained preposition
with transitive temper.
Literate your charms of singular inflection:
drop the matter, drop the act, let go!
You said, "it's done."
High on you, high wired
walkout of flash and fanfare,
stark in your son et lumiere
so bright...so bright,
and crass in this flare of tears
Into the irreducibles
of turnstiles and empty stations,
lulled into midnight encounters
and amorous interjections
of person, place or thing
now gone... gone!
art of loving you and memories
out of countenance
still speaking... speaking.
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Document last modified on: 12/31/2000