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 P o k e r Tongs open up into a laugh, remembering they caught the live coal in their jaws when Prometheus first tossed it down. somewhere they roast an ox, heap up the fire. and me? For a while i poked some logs. now i slouch here in the corner watching the cabin give itself to squirrels and roaches. The spider i think of as my soul climbs the cold chimney pipe, finds it tarred at the roof, spins out a line, and drops back down. That’s my spiritual adventure. You might think the boys  in some back room would honor me when they deal out their pairs and flushes. i could suggest a ritual: whenever a hand goes straight, they might think of me, the unbent iron. They might take off their hats. no chance. i’m dust and ashes. rust. if i could find my heart i’d pierce it, run it through. ...

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