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whom should I leave this
herring thirst
this syllabic sadness
who'll put on
this flea-bitten coat
whose motley tatters
make for a patchwork poem
to hide the world
whose eyes will
fog up from these
scratched lenses
whose hand will fall
from this pen
whose weak shoulder
can bear
this quilt of guilt
who'll fall on his knees
in a trance of remembrance
and who can remain
balanced as man
and poet
in my place
if not the human race

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