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A silent night in the

summer of my twenty second year,

a broken phrase of english and the

slightest bit of lipstick

at the corner of

the bar in

San Telmo, smudged

on a winter’s ale.  Yellow dresses, like

a poppy flowers’ cousin.  Sunglasses like

star light.  sweat stains

like oil stains.  a man is proposing,

the crowd is quiet.  No one speaks

as if they are waiting for war.  It’s coming,

the revolution, it’s coming at night.

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