For all the hours spent stippling forged
zodiacs in the vapid stratospheres of your eyes,
a little temerity peppered your hypothesis
on why I read the Sunday papers.
As you guffawed, you sneezed on superficial
(who happened to be drunk and ruddy
under the kitchen table, nursing his bloody
knuckles on the spleen of the tiles).
.
He was the only one who
recognized the constellations
drilled through the tusked eaves.
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