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  1. Sunday test
    Puppy Titch asleep on my lap
    So much to learn


    This breaking world not ours, wracked by all our warring,
    and yet we somehow persist with life, trying to be adoring....

    A flooded weir of words is seeping up through my sleep,
    inundating ears with drafts of torrential twilight
    reciting that tumble down this overflow of dreams.

    Are we identical twins as well as snowflakes
    who spent three nights flurryinging as we fell
    together into our mutual Montreal slush?

    After I died demented in a Manhattan ward
    then scrambled to be reborn in Darlinghurst
    on the same date, it took six decades to meet.

    When we did, you jemmied me open with your eyes,
    having found the combination of my safe heart,
    and seized upon everything invested in who I am.

    So, still learning the dial code of your Francophone,
    aspiring to be a refugee in your hometown, Calais,
    or any cobble in a lane indexed in your gazeteer.

    Every syllable is malleable, each letter of all alphabets
    is a spoken voice detuned, unmanned, not scripted storm
    tearing through me while you feel hardly any drizzle.

    Words of parried dice thrown in a refrain forest
    until all the numbers add up to nothingness is more
    than nuance, not that there is still a nesting chance.

    Take me to you, leader, before I become any hollower,
    outer, than all those years prior to being your follower.

    The climating call of chaos, let alone all the changes,
    is the drill biting deep in the hardly human hall
    we are stumbling along, mumbling what we no linger mean.

    This world is already bored with us.
    Soon life will squeeze out our pus.

    Is paradissection that painful?


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