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If I Were Conrad Black

If I were Conrad Black I’d be a
corpse glittering
on the slopes of a far-off
cliff
or a carpet of
dead kicked underneath
a humming.

If I were Conrad Black
I’d remember every
facial muscle
or column of fresh white
goose flesh
bathed in the fading light
of an apartment.

If I were Conrad Black
the slightest
cough
or camera shutter
would twist my
frightened horses.

Pictured from left to right:
Matthew and Diane
Conrad Hilary Barbara
and Galen

It’s not hard to imagine
a stiletto wound in the centre
of each of our friends.

Exist only
to be smooth-faced or cragged
scarred or scraped-free
of inconvenience or
continence.

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