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There are uses for a city to find it and leave. Big guns in the jacaranda a rebel's voice sounding the airway's plight. See you at a desk in a building in a city staring down a print of Miro the Dufy in the atrium. We're a big town now. Our tastes succeed us and make us known, glad to be found. Movie's at eight the beggars mock the virgin See her shadow, through the dress? More than I give to you an intercom in an office, speak to more people more than once. Everyone working on real estate, literature. Got to give it all to industry to make a big town with big night where we all dream of going where we will have sex but not necessarily love. You'll get there by bus one suitcase, chickens and couriers in the depot your mother will worry. The uses of enchantment complement big modes of production. There is no imitation in flattery. A big storm's coming in. From a small town on the coast. And you in that office and that telephone with a sky behind you as blue as the deep underside of the mind. Big heart and a print of Van Gogh. No, him, the real one like your voice over the hills of England, sweet now and using language like a rope to pull a burro slowly to your hacienda in Rome your villa in Tangiers all junk and roses and movies to keep me going. If you weren't talking you could be singing. Lie to me in the dark.
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Author:Bush, Stacy
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
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