Christmas Day near the Potomac/warm enough to run through the hollows/we’re on the way to Pikesville/my brother pauses to sob on the ramparts/he abandoned his farmhouse/to gaze though trees/I must follow his every echo/until he tells me:/I know where we are, now/we’re on a creek famous for flies/here’s where I can/ make love to my dying wives/So now tell me/Where does my future lie?/You who are full of alibis.
Dog Eat Dog
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Poetry in Motion 