Helen Edelman
An aesthete since birth seeking urgently an ontic truth, writing eagerly a cipher’d proof Died November 14, 1831 and on the third day rose again. Returned to judge the living and the dead headed west, purlicue outstretched toward Santa Fe, thumb in road. I found Him there, later at my sill flowers bloomed as He kissed each cheek. Planted lips planted seeds. I bought a vial of acid to better understand sublation. He said learn German instead then licked the vial clean It was mid- morning with something hot on the stove the last time we spoke, back deck and semi- supine bodies congruent, spatially maligned when coaxed to the kitchen by boiling water, He left. My friends say Hegel’s bad news anyway.
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