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Denomination The radio fades. The blues are out, and then the stars. By dark we mean well, full of firewater. We have saved the old songs, solid gold, and to what end? The houses pass as in a movie from a hundred years ago (inside, in summer, thieves can lift whole windows of yellow). The car comes to a full stop. The graveyard's made out in bare moon: here we are, stock-still, at the end of the line. Some words are lost for being far, and being far too often said. What's in a name? It's time, they never told you that. So lovers come to visit cemeteries. There you don't need any date to understand how long a Hope or Patience has been dead. *9 ...

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