Ah, I know this man whose arms
Always ache as if  empty,
And when so,
Cause his eyes 
To stare far into
The bottom of a glass.

He looks at all his memories.
As they stab at him,
Like the warriors
Of Gulliver’s travails.
And the ropes
Seem rather strong.
For the moment.

Many times.”
Says he,
” I’m pretty 
I’ve written all 
The words
That I 
I know no more rhymes
Or stories.
Twists of irony or fate.”

As he stares at the ice
Faster now,
In the evening heat.


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