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Fist

 Iron growing in the dark, 
it dreams all night long 
and will not work.
A flower that hates God, a child tearing at itself, this one closes on nothing.
Friday, late, Detroit Transmission.
If I live forever, the first clouded light of dawn will flood me in the cold streams north of Pontiac.
It opens and is no longer.
Bud of anger, kinked tendril of my life, here in the forged morning fill with anything -- water, light, blood -- but fill.

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