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On the cover:
FOR JACK SPICER
I’m out of touch with stars. The bar’s closed. We go groggy down Grant to Columbus to the Park to somebody’s parked car. One of us says, Let’s go to Ebbe’s. Ebbe says, Sure, why not, let’s go. We’re gone piled in the back seat breathing wine on windowpanes. Seven Years ago. Tonight
you’re gone. Maybe that night it was Marco who fell back on the bush. We left him there to sleep it off.