In this contest, an incident with strong winds,/palms in sweat; the source of lost silver./I pass by bunk beds,/in lowdown towns,/each and every whistle stop/ there hovers my bleeding ./On a moon’s brink, swimming,/in divine obedience, a bag man and a thief/ mumble of women who made their lives./ A host of lovers jilted,/they bomb out in blues,/they attack 100 prisons/agog to imagine releasing Eden./The diesel hums as I skip vespers./Tyrants, ruined on the edge,unleash others./But I need to hear the bells sound again./While I’m alone,I love their blind release,/peals murmur, hum all through the night.

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