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spence 37 Michael Spence The Discarded They use us to polish their hull, Ib shine its steel stainless With our labor. We soak up streaks Ofoil—oil moving thick As black blood among unseen gears. When we can no longer clean The metal face, we are tossed Into a place dark and numb as oil. But we will not stay silent. Even now we smolder, ready From our own heat to ignite. ...

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