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If I had a thought in my head,
I’d duly give it form
and meaning on this page.
At my age, hangovers can last
a lifetime, and then some.

On a night like tonight,
dumb in plum-tinted languor,
it’s easier to grieve than to forget.
My throat stings, my lips crackle,
the table supports my varied appendages.
I’ve no bandage to mask
the grisly slit in the window glass.
I used to be an asset.
Feral assessment.
Impressed with blessedness,
same as before, neither in nor for,
and the story climbs higher

into itself, twisting like cigarette smoke.
I wear this cloak to hide
from my abstracted self,
the one that everybody
but me can see.

-r. miller

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