Winter 2010 • Vol. XXXII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2010 |

A Note from the Tired Diary of a Dirty Old Man

Across the black belt of night, star fires tease faint memories of home. I cross the wide Missouri near Crow Creek, SD. Years ago smoke blended campfire shadows of a woman into the dappled trees of autumn, though now this seems contrived. The essential fictive nature of public utterance keeps me from saying any more & this is no age to be a victim, so if the court of night compels me to testify, I will claim I am just too fucking haggard to evoke any ghostly brilliant flames once fueled by succulent brown-skinned thighs.

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