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55 L O N E LY T Y L E N O L There I could never be a boy —frank o’hara You have to begin somewhere. The devil of your empty pocket moves as escargot up the artery of a hollow arm, ending on the lip of your dismay—it shows— in the Brillo morning of a shaving mirror. It is that morning always, and it is that morning now, and now you must fight, not with fists but with an eraser. The duelist awaits a ham sandwich on the dock where your ship comes in. Be warned and without ceremony take your place as you have before. Only look once at the idiot chagrin and smile as you ready your slingshot. You are not alone in your palindrome. Why is it so hard to know everything it said when the mirror spoke. The book is darker than night. Do you read me? This is written somewhere and no one can read it. It is not for them but to you it is a reproof from years of neglect. There there. No place like home. ...

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