out of this muttled skull.
On my desk sits a dozen small
poems addressed to you,
but they're old since you no longer exist.
I read today about Audie Murphy
who was a small frail boy
who won 33 medals for killing people
in the Second World War.
Anyway sometime later he
became addicted to placidyl,
then went cold turkey,
locked himself in a dingy motel
and a week later got over it.
What I'm saying
is that I'm not Audie Murphy.
I have never contracted malaria.
I don't know what it's like
to shake violently for days
and then suddenly stop.
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