Kind Henry,All leather barrels and jars of nonsense
Tell me about the places you have been:
Waiting for trains
Breeding lice
Burning sermons.
You are an Old Master faked for moneyAn envelope shredded beneath an archway
The paper flakes fluttering off
As the white slips fluttered (no two the same)You sank beneath the surface of their swirling trail.
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