THE BELL-RINGER
Carrion slice the sky,
wide-eyed and swift of
eye. I want to urge them
on, but can't. My saddle
of distension sags : America!
What is it? The sweepings
of every other land not ours.
A simple Winter password
should suffice, if only I could
find it. I know of little eyes
and so-sweet hearts. Away
to the sun, I wish to fly.
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