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Peter Burzynski 





      Portrait d'un Faune




Hooves clack metropolitan

No home for horns, heavy

matted legs.  The lute, the lyre


dulled by sirens, the heft

of the sewer air hissing dry,

ambient crooning.  Little


goat-like spears break scalp

like antennae picking up

scrambled signals from God-


knows-where Italy.  Haven’t

been there? No more wine.

You sure aren’t going to help. 









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