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Templeton Rye

At a diner near Nye,

where no one has heard of cancer,

and everyone sleeps

drinking Templeton Rye,

you are sitting across from me.

Your shadows arrive like vagabonds,

they whistle,

they blow.

Your hands conceal a furnace,

your tongue

tastes of cinnamon snow.

Yet, I have learned

that there’s a price for each invitation

and an avalanche awaiting every sin.

But my pockets are finally empty

and my cuff-links are made of tin.

Are you this tired

of what remains of my mind?

Will there be an ark?

A mountain?

A turquoise ring?

Will this tarred womb

give birth to a wing,

at a diner near Nye?

Copyright 2024


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