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Old Blood on New Hands
The morning, waking,
sun sitting high in October clouds,
breaking, new light in the sky,
shaping roses,
into
flat pastel blue,
spread out like a canvas:
You,
her,
passed away,
no future, I think,
She winks,
blinks,
forgets me,
dies,
in the darkest hour,
and I
walk the sidewalk
setting fire
on chalk-white death:
old blood on new hands.
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