from The March

Borges said.
In all the world.

One man has been born.
One man
 
has died. Statistics.
All other insistences. That we are many.

In this Irish Pub beside MoMA.
I must be

getting sick. I must be getting
older. Unreasonable even

in my belief that
Austin, Michael, and I.

Eating cheese steaks. Are.
All of us. That agonized

WWI soldier
scratched to life wildly

by some German Expressionist whose name
we already don't remember.

Some dead
tortured artist.

The single man
who is always alone.

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