Seven miles north to Tuscany.
We have no response for the rain.
  Likened, once, to a playground bully
    rapping upon your skull for pain
   that numbs you until you cannot think, you
    cannot imagine your own face.
 Only blood sitting weary and slow and
  eyeballs floating in empty space.

Nearly perfect spheres see themselves,
 milky surface area unable to close.
Moving them from one side of the world to another
  hardly makes a difference
   (as far as you know).
Oh rain of mammoth - tell what we have done.
  Give us who we are,
  and tell us where we go.


For one of the very few men I would both drink to and drink with. Rest in peace.

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