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Treml: a name as flat as a fist on a gnat. Hair the color of pissed-in straw. Eyes a vicarious blue. Treml has files. Tells lies. Has a nameplate. Monogrammed ties. In his drawer there's a knife which he claims is a ruler with an unusually sharp edge. Blond hairs grow on Treml's wrist. At night they stiffen when he takes off the blackfaced watch which ticks like a cricket in stunted wheat. Every morning Treml laid the black face down in front of you. It never told the time. The day you died a dozen roses came: unsigned.
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Author:Zaller, Robert
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:May 1, 1993
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