Winds, hands, howls break
this city and beat it.

The overflow of time
reddens, fortifies our grief

and fixes battle gear
to the underside of knuckles

palm lines spiraling inward
towards numb clutch -- 

on the fester of speculation
on the wheels of judgment

Even to leave our houses
and desert ourselves,

embrace a familiar face
stand still while the thought 

dies, is venturing too far

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