Snow, A Eulogy
In the momentary lapse of everything of temper,
It was 3am
Of the poems and of a drugged phantom of stammering centuries
It was late
With the words of meaning and the words of service,
With the words of meaning and the words of service,
With the words of meaning and the words of service, on a horse-back intelligentsia, with the rhetoric of a-dying,
with the words that make and the words that take,
It was snowing.
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