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If you can conceive
of hell, Dante discovered,
you're already there.
O dust. O broom.
O sweeper made of dust.
O broom. O dust.
A long loon wail
from the heart of the still lake—
it breaks, it breaks.
Classes at Navy—
walking past white grave markers
with Whitman in hand.
The dust of two towers
is slowly obscured by smoke
from a thousand towns.
A mare licks her foal,
first one ear, then the other,
tasting herself.
Cicadas leave shells,
deer bones, but what shall I
let the wind scatter?
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