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dark fire,
images on my eyes
are they real?
I see the road where I walk,
broken cobbles
they cut my feet
my blood the color of a rose in summer
I walk because I have to.
I dream??
Caught it quick in pencil on the back of a bank statement
The nurses are always brisk and purposeful.

"*** in this'
she said,
writing my name on the small plastic container

"I'll be back soon"
and out she went
leaving me alone to ponder on my ability
to fulfill this function.

"Now what"
I say to myself
"Unbuckle or unzip or both?"
How best to relax.
do what I gotta do
standing or sitting?

Will there be enough?
and what if it spills?
Could I get it off the floor?
and if not,
where could I get more?

Carefully, carefully, the job done
I put the precious liquid aside
and carefully, carefully
I pick up and ***** on the lid.

Zip.
Buckle.
Preen.

What tales will this ichor tell?
Two new back operations coming up. Can't be too  glum.
my happy niece clare
back in london and clothesless
suitcase lost in Detroit
an amuse-bouche. no more
d'ja really know
in my home vernacular
that ooonts mek them tumps
woof spirit of wolf
tails wags not sign of amity
choker chain needed
From our country lives matter columnist
measure your hemlock
write the names in copperplate
then fall on your pens
poets froth up
inedible stone soup feeds
inconsolables
After all the clangor and tumult and epithets I thought a gentle little epitaph might be written in haiku form
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