The cattle are barking
because it is dark. Why, here's
one at my fourth floor window. Come in,
old flame, you are my buddy. Wrap your
flanks around me. Without looking
I can distinguish against my cheeks
the brown patch from the white one each
made out of hairs out of doors
in the vinyl grass-black
heat of the streets, many years ago.
Sit down, rest that big flesh
fig against the floor. I rise to shut the window
and looking out resolve never to turn back.
Then she told me why the pinhead couldn't stay at the party.
--R. Meyers, c. 1970, Mott St. betw. Prince & Houston
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