I can tell when my soul is present
Which is not much of the time
Unless it has so mastered silence
That I hear no sound as it lurks
In some dark alley of myself,
Perched on a trash bin, watching
And listening and taking notes
Which it intends to produce
Once the defending angel says
"Your witness." If it is
truly in me
All the time, never out drinking
Coffee or something worse
From chipped cups with, say,
The ghosts of Edward
And Dennis and Hedda Hopper
Tell it that I consider it a damn
snitch.
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