To the fast-talking gentleman with the Roebuck coat and the Nu-Way trousers

poetry

These lives of yours,
intangible ghosts,
much like the summer was
to Escher

No color to dictate
season, nor ice nor
snow nor falling leaves
as if the summer
always was

these lives, though,
are the dossier of a fool:
and at least Escher’s,
when jammed together,
fit right.

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