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10:50 (for Tiffany F.)

I wake up early so I can get drunk and walk in the morning fog. Every day is Sunday. I hear the church bells ringing through the foggy treetops. The church has a library of poetry and theological texts. The caretakers let me sit there and read all morning, though they know I am a drunken atheist--maybe BECAUSE I am a drunken atheist. I read for a while and take discreet sips from my flask and write poems for you. Your name is in every title. But, rather than send them to you, I leave them in random places--tacked to the laundromat bulletin board, tucked in the folds of a paper at the newsstand, dropped in the dust jacket of an LP no one wants to buy, or left in the leaves of a theological text no one will unshelve again for many, many years.

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