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--- L E O N A R D   G O N T A R E K

A crow sits on the cross of a telephone pole.

Dragonflies fighting over air,

Even here on the floor of hell, a

Punky crumbling mess rich with

Fragrant disappearing flowers I do

Not know the names of.

I think of our disputes over sex.

Scentless sting of kiss afterward.

Irritating traffic, cicadas.

Shirring backroads leading past a porch

Of inbred moonshiners one

Marvelously tipsy zen monk,

Prisoner of cypress trees and his shyness.

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