Lyn Lifshin


under the gray paint
maybe still the
DNA of your palm.
It was the first night.
I wish I had known
I’d already fallen
for your voice,
your stories on night
radio. Who could
want a man without
a treasure of tales?
Isn’t it when each
person’s stories run
out it starts to get
boring? Your plastic
leg like a totem
while you held me,
too few nights, the
beat that my heart

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