see the kind sternly built writer
in death whose selfsame anger bright
for flocks stolen led blind beneath blankets
full of trite tracts and ransomed dinner
marched as the damned through jagged night
symbols and sounds already arbitrary disbanding
mistaken for incomprehensible signs of nature
the true wish verbosely inscribed within oak
having survived the paperman’s axe another season
unseen and silently echoing rings
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