I was wrong.
I thought judgement
was the parlance of the strong.
The strong favored me wrong.
You sang again.
The bridges flexed
around the coops and glens.
I favored wrens. I favored
secret weaknesses in friends.
Gregory in relapse sleepless
still in fine form, cooking shirtless
to Ornette, or talking
ceaselessly of Todd Rundgren,
Mark E. Smith vs. Damo Suzuki,
big knuckles of brass,
all our eye's lips are kissing
Foxy Brown's ass,
and the half-year's new at last,
and the marsh-hen's a wriggling down
Beefheart lane, Greg Devlin's memory
is Europe's and America's,
paid tribute to Ravel and Matisse,
honored our deep and fatal
ancestors, and has not
failed them yet, and never will.
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