His one line orf gold in profile from eyelash back to ear;
my aging friend’s white hair swirled with brown.  In the
first equinox darkness, the night is more an epilogue.
His cigar fires a freckled red blaze.  He talks about the
horror and fascination in his dying friend’s words about
 a room in his dream that becomes an echo, except for the
one television and a voice commanding “No, this is my
room.”  Twin pines in the yard, those tall beasts, sway.
The profile is a relentless posture, dishonest and cold.
Or it is only this way because I want him to look at me.
Then his whiskey voice and green smoke.  “i hope I can
die like that gutter runoff.”  Pause of falling, a dizzy swirl.
“These cigars, with which you corrupt me every summer,
make me feel reverence for this rain.”  The folding chair
opens more fully when he stands up, his white robe
the leg’s momentary halo.


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