Our cheap thrills,
striking out high
in the black light
of the seventeenth
hole, were employed
to be priceless,
reckless on record;
adored, eyes glazed,
when entranced by
the proper code
of future days.
But our tradition
as outcasts was
powder, costumes.
The gravity
shallow, grovelling,
where I’d trip but
not fall, at a cost.
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