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Poems


Mark at the Weight Machine

Head down,
    hands folded together
        standing before the weight machine
as before a mighty master.
    Silent,
        submissive,
breathing slowly --
    a broad, strong back waiting
        to be commanded.

You could be a figure
    in a da Vinci charcoal, a torso
        in a gallery of Roman sculpture.
Odd to see you later
    by the elevators, grinning,
        in slacks and a tie.

September, 2002


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