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Sleeping With The Dead (Poem)

I was in London last night
with Sondra, though she’s
been gone for 13 years.

I had breakfast with Fidel
in Woodstock
one recent foggy morn.

Sometimes I wake myself up
speaking Marco’s words
out loud.

I sleep with the dead,
prefer them
to the living.

Even my mother
and father speak words
of truth and beauty,
give me their wisdom
instead of their pain.