from this week in June, 1972 (I was 27)
What are these strange gifts
that man leaves behind
as conspicuous as silver bullets?
Most are tickets to a Magic Show
which does not exist except it seems
in the memories of those who have been there.
Other times he leaves poems
which read like invitations to a Magic Show.
He has always just ridden out of town.
But for these we’d never remember he’d been here.
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