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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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