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October 20, 2000


Surely this landfill is "land", made of flattened cans,

disposable diapers, gravel, garbage, mud flats, old bones.


Cars park on it beneath my window, and city blocks emerge

where cranes laid eggs: town hall, library, bridge.


Only, problems occur. In high rain streets slide mud,

drop onto traffic below oozy grass lifted from your yard.


Gentlemen: perhaps the "land" does not concur. Would choose

another form, prefer to lie elsewhere, find


another latitude, change names, turn an open coat

ah, revealing deep breasts and an emerald pendant,


the chain encircling her throbbing throat.

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