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    Inner Sentry of Affinity

     

    by Nathan Hoks

     

     

    A pipe is a kind of person, said my wife

    As she cut into her pork cutlet,

    But I was distracted by the sound of water

    And thus unable to consider persons

    In the abstract. She continued to talk

    But seemed addicted to an invisible

    And cold pocket. I thought

    She addressed someone more specific

    Than myself, a tall bearded man whose

    Presence was intoned in her nasal cavity.

    He stood there, a sentry who peers

    Down the parapet at the silky moat

    Which compels him to loosen his belt buckle

    Catching at the moon’s reflection.

    The man-shaped sparkle only lasts a minute

    The kale is crisp and salty.

    Can I wipe my hands on your dress?

     

     

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