is the cheap skid-row wine you use
to light the day when you’re alone.
As spleen and liver give up ghosts
the leaves go golden on their stems,
then fall before the lord of hosts
who neither cares, saves, nor condemns.
The hand of the grandfather clock
moves you towards a grotto grave,
while you lie ready by the rock
or say goodbye beneath a wave.
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The river is a vein that flowstowards his hermit heart, festoonedwith briars, and with poison oak.Five beaver pelts press on his spine;the spirit of an arrow strokeshis beard; his sweat turns into brine.He’ll build a tiny pillar of stonein his mind, and only speak to thosewho speak to him, for when alonethe Lord keeps him…
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Drunk on clouds and yesterday’s rain,
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