| The black-streak, bag-eyed husbands
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| move waiting to be widowed
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| by the passing of familiar skies
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| and all we’ve come to know
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| our shadows have my sympathy
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| for they must never wish to be
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| joined beneath, unwilling
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| our endless, restless feet
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| so praise be the break of day
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| when we run out of things to say
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| we’ll learn to speak in different ways
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| and plea with cities to be breathing
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| for beauty made them bend and sway
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| we’ll learn to speak in different ways
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| our list’s caught frozen in a streetlight
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| our indecision rides atop the crow
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| it burned out, blackened, turned to ash and blew away
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| to embers far to bright to see
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| and not there enough to weigh |