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Gigs
I’ve known his leaps listed in whiskey;
his lounge amid halts and hires,
where the pick wears his thumb like a nail,
he stays the bone in smoke-skin from barlights
(the oils and guitar-tanned ears of an audience),
dolling in the world like wist and welt,
and flit his night on a willing gig-
Now every belt on every midnight swerves
songward,
moving like a lilly in a dog’s mouth.
Email: Ray Succre
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