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his is the last poem of any number of poems
tonight, there’s
one drink of wine left
and both of those guys
they are asleep across the top of my feet.
I can feel the gentle weight of them
the touch of fur
I am aware of their breathing:
good things happen often, remember that
as the Bombs trundle out in their magnificent
dumbness
these
at my feet
know more,
are
more,
and instants of the moments explode
larger
and a lucky past
can never be
killed.
On Cats
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