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Max Winter

The man’s feet are not in the picture.

His arms point towards the ground beneath us

Limply, as if broken.

His hands are also absent.

The ends of his thick mustache point upwards.

The ends of his mouth,

Like his arms,

Point towards our feet.

His lips: thick,

And stretched by what must be a smile.

He wears a white unitard,

Smudged near what must be the navel,

Knees, cock, balls, nipples evident.

It is impossible to say

What suspends him.

There is no background,

Only white.

What sheer years

Spent just

Like this.

Bless him

Once before you leave,

Twice in case I forget.

Max Winter

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