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His blood was thrown off in a hurry, carelessly
Like the clothes
Of someone too tired to bother.
How the night has grown!
The windows were quite right.
Like my parents, when I was a child.
Ascetic winds make a solemn procession, head bent, in the hills
Mayors or clerks of army and U.N.
Measure the distance from the living
To the dead
With angels and compasses and miniature rulers.
With packs of cigarettes, with very hard feelings.
With sharpened hopes
And a bloodhound.