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Jan 152014
 

by Barbara Tramonte

 

First, a moveable feast

Lost in Paris

Olives, goujon, crusty bread.

Then the manuscript

Terse, filled with meaning

Sentences taut

like lariat tails

Leave people behind

with trace marks

on a fence.

I live in Ernest.

Rifle to my head or heart

Good stiff drink

and morning air.

I live in alleys

on mountaintops

and ski

with the vigor of a body double.

Oysters slide down

a welcome throat

Flowers smell fleeting

Time is short and

sweet as a whiff

in an orangerie.

I live tapping code

from a cave

Alive

Here

Waiting.

I live in Ernest.