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A Modern Man

I walk in the mists of a cold canyon,
sometimes accompanied by my late wife. 

She’s silent, amused, soon to go again,
impatient with me for 

hanging onto melancholic vapors
when it’s obvious–to her, anyway–that 

I haven’t wised up yet.

She knew. We talked about it at the last. 
She told me to find someone.
Knew I would only trust the secrets, 

the warmth and secret wetness,
the round softnesses I could hold,
the friendly curves, the mysterious eyes;
she knew that all man’s scripture

could be held on a 3-by-5 card,
if he weren’t so stubbornly drunk on himself.

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