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Poem: Blank Spaces 

A calendar for the coming year arrives.
It has photos of ibex and honeybees,
and all those empty spaces.
That half of this year’s gone
saddens me, as after making love,
the smoke I crave
is now a phantom cigarette.

August is over and summer
in its fading fullness
climbs toward autumn
like an aging, overweight man
going up the stairs, pursuing
visions he’ll no longer grasp.
Now the only moan is
the stairs as he mounts them,
catches his breath,
sinks slowly into fall.

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