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Polar Nettles

he takes his dinner in the bath

love sickened and infirmed

the orderly found him there

fileted on the marble stairs

hat still in hand

his smoking remains

blown out by a kiss from the sunday scene

sunday soon sunday soon someday soonsomeday someday somedayhis eyes are closed he mouthed the name the rosary

her lips and tongue she is the centrifuge

that throws the spies from the sun

the cistine chapel painted with the gattling gun

someday soon x4oh the meadows set on end

move like starlings up a cliff and tenor of a foggy touch

the forcefield round his frosty hips

whose shape recalls the wicked spade

that buried him but on his lips the last rites of nerves

someday soon

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