And so the table unfolds before us,
ashtray eye-beams and saucer-eyed sentences,
coats put on for the chill November wind
that reaches around, a kind of strong-armed
curse, an anti-benediction, as if some ruddy
pope put a backwards rhyme on our spoons so
that nothing could ever be born from this tryst
but a moon-child cast up into the stratosphere,
without reason for leaving the ground...
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