Summer 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 2000 |

Kiss, Kiss, Said Louise by Way of a Pay Phone

To the other who'd been left behind. The city was unlucky in cloudy and chance of. Routing the enemy, following a route. What does it mean, Mary Louise, that the mall in Midcreek will open in May? They were getting away to nature, conveyance as a form of diffidence. Every avenue, said Ham, still ends at perception. There is a point, said Louise, when one will act or won't even know what she's missed. She was wearing a wig and suit of blue serge and looked somewhat like that section of a symphony written in the alphabet soup of C and B-neath. The road was a ribbon on the bright canyon bed. Clever twin, said Louise, to those who know how to follow a scheme that avoids the end of the senses before there can be a begun. She saw: a blue car leaving at three; a blue car returning at four; an odd-looking man leaning against an ornamental Japanese pine. They stopped at the house on the top of the hill, lit like a candle house cake. I hope, Ham said, there's a fir

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