a moon pulls its big chrome
bumper over Washington
into place on quarters
most of us struggle with a rose
gray theories of matter and notebook befuddle
even Mr. Pilgrim "So it goes."
(extra sensory wisemen offered to guess the
names from the mouths of infants)
cut grass hangs in the air like a crime
crosses transfixed on a mowed hillside despite rows
and not in place
of those
five fold to reach a slaughterhouse
war squares up to the feat to
make boys of men and mincemeat
of the lowest common denominator
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