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By Dawn's Early Light
at 120 Miles Per Hour

The Arsonist

So, that October night
I burned the lot. Harry
roasted ribs over your underwear,
squeezed sterno through your pale blue peignoir.
The silver brooch with the fucking horses
scorched sea-green, books by Potter
toasted brown as bees. I saved
the bindle of Caine
and an ounce of Thai weed
(smoked it with the crew from engine 5). Stoned
and waving a hose around the edge,
I thought I saw your face
giggling in the bubbling tar,
your arms
stuffed with pillows and fake amber beads.
If you're ever back in town,
Germaine's got your jade earrings
and the locket with cuttings of our pubic hair, be sure
to look me up
I'm generally listed.

Barcelona Diary
It's Mother's Day
By Dawn's Early Light at 120 Miles Per Hour
The Man With His Back To The Room
Intimacies, Prose. Poems and Stories
Homage to a Widow
It's Only TV
Improvisations - Chapbook
After Goya
Improvisations - From Contemporary Music
Mustering What's Left