about fictional characters
when we can barely care
about non-fictional ones
like that beautiful Russian
woman who threw herself
in front of a train as against
the real poet’s wife who went
after him to the gulags
or the lusty man who spent
a day wandering around
his sleepy city as against myself
staggering around my tired yard
except the truth was only once
undisguised and simple
and then we had to kill it
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