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Jan 2014
I remember Night clasped the Birches,
and Angels' footwork in snow
when we were not afraid of the dark.
I called this Home, so fare thee well.

Down straights, or streets, or weekends,
I had fevers, I had strength in my Hands
that only found themselves curling papers,
and praising the glass for the glory of evenings.
I called this Youth, so fare thee well.

There was a Woman that gave me
the feeble, temperate, and blessed curiosity
of Others that were channeled.
She would creep Naked through the house
as if with a Gun, and find me for kiss,
for welcome, for touch, and fumbling.
to Lay Up, and speak of art
As if our words alone were the wisdom
of some supreme Vision or saint.
I called this Love, so fare thee well.

There were flash, there were bustle and unrolling,
and rewinding of tape, and touche,
and cool resentment for men, and maybe
tears but I can't remember.
It was a bed of medicines, of chalk,
and later flowers that I never saw.
That I will never visit.
I called this growing Older.
Written by
Jory  Chicago
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