The coil of summer is spent and in the cold, we bruise;

a roll of litmus papers, tears acidic in the night. 

Here death knuckles, grit bites - the fever of our jaws as we repent

our steadfast boots, our gallant wooden toys, our rampant

springs of duty. We swallow hard and taste the theft

with every buckle around our waist

and every scar stitched onto o...

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