Sunday 12/24/2006 12:22:00 AM

He never said, but he implied surgery. In drives. And in putts. There was a par he had in mind. Stitches in dead bears planned long before their arms had fallen off. In cautious undressings. Rehearsals of the catastrophe. We had labelled every hole. Dressed it in its tuxedo. And watched the limo pull away with it inside sipping a pertinent scotch.

He was over. And under. And everything inbewtween that keeps us young enough to expect. What we think we deserve. Or have earned. What we've dreamt about when the walls were quiet enough to hear me thinking about how dense they've become.

Paper dolls multiplying in cellars unattended. Paper dolls insisting I give them each a name. As if I ever knew from where they came.

The paper in those wastebaskets not mentioning. Not daring to refer to all ths people who had found. A way inside.

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