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Strike While the Iron Is Hot

Energetically speaking, it’s a time of much shifting,
a little lightning, and a speck of hope.  If you see
a weasel at the river, that’s an animal that likes to
weasel into small spaces, and that’s for luck.
My superstitions are palatable on the end of my fork:
weasel.  This is a message from the transit of Venus
and from other regular transportation authorities
which are really only figments of my classical education.
Let me muddy the waters a bit here and introduce
you to the canon where you drop names to trigger
expectation, something like Brainard and Schuyler used to.
One day soon, I might cross a street near an American
Apparel in what used to be the Village, and bumble right into
the form of one Todd Colby, singing loudly. Or maybe I won’t
look to my left as I cross Avenue of the Americas and I’ll get
smeared under a truck carrying library books. You never know
with glory.  But I bought some welder’s glass to protect my eyes.
I’ll meet you out back where it’s turbulent and kinked.  The elements
are aligned.  The bodies are waiting with supplicants and ginger
poultices. All I ever wanted and all I ever knew is gone with you.

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