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Poem: Lying in a Flea-Infested Apartment 

They have a music:

                           a violin string

reverberating inside an empty eye socket.

                              The music of torture

before the idea of torture (an unnamed fear

                                     just outside the light in the caves

                   where we painted the ibex, the woolly rhino,

                                                 the horse's curious face).

I hear their music enter history: black hands, black feet.

                                                                                           With nothing

to light my way except a string of white lights

draped over the windows facing the street

                              I pick one off my sock, flick it

                       into soap-water, turn the page

                                         of a book about American Indian sacred places...

                                                                    Cars pass.

They are the future: this music of shadows

                                                           inside sandstone cupolas

             dug out by anonymous fingers on the last day. Dots,

telling the time

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