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Mike Gubser

standing and muscling in

           nicotine halls where

   tired faces fall toward the shade

   of orange eyes

           that wink and stare
                                    from the corners of

         air thickened with universal pall.
   that is,
           everyone saw the need to be one with history,

passing in pale terminals,

      waiting under skyless suns.

      i share my wall with unconscious

           poor, some

with somewhere to go, some that go nowhere, some that gaze after

      the sum silently swimming

   dragging aquaria
         on rainbow lines,

      seeking the woman in the polka-dot

           dress, her bloodless eyes, her bodiless smile,

         standing still

                in the eye

                     of new trains.

Mike Gubser

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