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Bombay Gin

The book that became the dust on a thousand books
is history
we are condemned to repeat.

Outside, this single day
acheives its size among the pines and voices
rising in it and
disappears with its dead,
folllowing a formula that winds down to the sea.
Martinis grow bright wings
and pass the barmaid
from one town to another
day of sleeping late.

This means I am momentarily serpentine
in my approach to meaning;
Since me Atman had put a contract out on me
I prefer to maintain my shadowy figure.
There is a madness to his method:
when the horse is buried in its cart, the ranch one had in mind
is processed into tugboats.

Meanwhile, ten fingers
stand for the two birds they're reaching for
while you brush Herecletian myths from your sunbonnet.
Without walls to retain the rooms
where we keep our distant past waiting
lives run by in the blur we're drifitng out of,
brushing with air
as with fate.

Soon, the birds
become the plots
in which our ancestors are trapped,
clutching at our ankles.