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      By David Hunter Sutherland

      You occur in random sequels,
      speak in exclusives,
      talk a torpid metaphor,
      unhinge each strained preposition
      with transitive temper.
      Literate your charms of singular inflection:
      drop the matter, drop the act, let go!
      You said, "it's done."
      High on you, high wired
      walkout of flash and fanfare,
      stark in your son et lumiere
      so bright,
      and crass in this flare of tears
      falling... falling.

      Into the irreducibles
      of turnstiles and empty stations,
      lulled into midnight encounters
      and amorous interjections
      of person, place or thing
      now gone... gone!
      The expressionless
      art of loving you and memories
      of another
      out of countenance
      still speaking... speaking.

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Document last modified on: 12/31/2000

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