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so transfer the cloth
the rag of witches the dark
colloquial
word
left out on the
street like a moved heart, the
kidney blood
of forgotten language,
i need this back
the lest word
replete with for
ever repeating voices,
bullets laid in mud
and to be the finder of that
golden domesticity
let it be me, forgo all fame
for the catastrophic vision of
a virtuoso, collecting the
debris of a city full of souls,
grinding out the miracle of
misery, the miracle of living,
busting
up toward a reluctant sun