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38 Hamlet in Centennial Park We lounge across tattered quilts contrasting tattoos. This a lancer’s threat, that a dissected spleen. We dissect the brie, chew and swallow each grape as totem of good fortune. We empty bottles into glass. Each of us give the program girl, ripe wench, our reasonable donation. We’re young; we know the cost of things. On stage, an old ghost comes and goes. For him dawn is unspeakable. Clouds conspire against weakened moon as dark trembles over us, angels of apprehension bound to an essence of dust. Players die for applause. We oblige, then scatter home to a rest in silence. ...

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