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Poem	I DON’T blame the kettle drums—they are hungry. And the snare drums—I know what they want—they are empty too. And the harring booming bass drums—they are hungriest of all.. . . The howling spears of the Northwest die down. The lullabies of the Southwest get a chance, a mother song. A cradle moon rides out of a torn hole in the ragbag top of the sky.
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