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Richard Tayson

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by this poet

I’m late for the birth-
day party, it’s one
of those cool after-

noons when the world
is clear, is made
of glass, the sky

so blue you want to
look up at the very
center of its pupil

in case you get
a glimpse of what
comes after

we leave here.  I’m
thinking my lover’s
sister is thirty-two

today, but I want