You who are
the century
fell for divine
You who talked
of dirt became
the maximal measure
You who
stalled and braying
settle the contortion
We who are précis
return to a word
No chance exists for
any word while
town makes small
kindling
Children become
mined. Arena
Poetry fills no
need of blossom
Town releases
embolism so
perfect and fretful
Every tower negated
delights the lamp
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