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Beautiful man looking around
with hair like iron and the eyes of a clown,
darting across the street at the first
sign of a break in the parade of carriages,
a sheaf of political poems under your arm:
I love you and miss you after all these centuries.
I am saddest, I guess, about your scandal-torn marriage
that ended with gunplay and you falling down.
I picture the single smokey burst
and can't help but wonder why you let him shoot first.
On that frozen day, had you no intention of bringing harm
to anyone at all, you gentleman -- not even young d'Anthés?