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by Ben Adams

each night I hear

the music rooms of that lost city

and picture you

among the palaces of Montezuma

or something close enough


just a thought, a touch

of that Mexican restaurant we made our


cheap sangria by the full carafe


a walk along the pier

and two black coffees

to finish things


a conversation that no longer has

any relevance


and I think of a requiem

of Spanish horses

the last tram



and your hand in mine


this scrap of paper scribbled with thoughts

that once meant something

blown off

and up

by late night traffic

on the long walk home

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