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Every time someone dies / it feels like / another victory for me.
Somehow we knew your granddaughter / would need calm. We named her for what carries on.
I have contemplated my half-toothless grin in the mirror / and compared it, favorably, to a baboon’s butt
Schopenhauer / Knew it too, how we can lose ourselves entirely, become / Something else we don’t understand.
“Hey, conductor, / how much for two tickets? / Tonight / it’s my poems and I.”
One thing about fire, / even the slightest / tongue will seek / another to burn.
if you have a favorite cup remember it might be broken
Life is not like Beckett. / Only Beckett is like Beckett.
And at night in our bed / the bird of me returns // to the tree of you.