Her black glove is flying across downtown.
“A crow!” they shouted. “A crow is attacking Eiffel Tour!”
...cry of a rooster/the goat is smiling...
She knows/He knows.
“Purple and white, of course!”
A wedding for a happy end.
A picture for a wedding.
The glove has no wing.
Just a small hole through
thick and thin.
Kept especially for the sixth finger.
I remember the spring of 79
as me and Bob Seger left for Katmandu
dad
a retired railwayman was befriending Feodor Dostoevsky
later I learned that his life had become a boat without paddles
an important word lost in translation
meanwhile my name
indigo painted
was hiding like Euripides in cave
oftentimes I'm checking myself for signs of rust
every morning God throws a silver coin in my hair
not keeping evidence of the bell gongs stuck in my ears
he sat at table number 9
she chose 10
their eyes never met
but only through the wall wide gilded mirror across the room
he thought her name was Faith
she guessed his was Luke
he took a sip from his mocha massimo every 41 secs
she guessed he was 41, slowly stirring her white-no-sugar earl grey
she wondered if the girl on page three of his 'Sun' was a blond, a brunette or a red head
he wondered what principle she's at in 'Why men love bitches'
they ate lemon and poppy seed muffins with small bites
his lips were firm
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