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Slowly I poem across the page,
strangling in my willing fingers
one hemophilic Pentel fine point,
milking out its black, reluctant blood.
Foggy-faced, I sit be-coffed,
floundering midnight streets
and alleyways across the murky table,
and my mind is a stalled truck.
Trysting flute and harpsichord
pajama me in bold cathedral eruptions.
Half a song slips limply from my mouth,
and half a smile falls idiot on the floor.
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