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41 midniGht, december 31, 2006 Who but fool or martyr raises fist as if a moon recalled losses, cared for anything than tattered finery of cloud and not that either. Where I’d cloaked you in one blanket of cotton, one of earth, where what remains of your body rests without pain, I bowed. No fancy words, sweet boy, not for us, just promises, hushed apologies, the wailing I’ve made my art for the half of an unforgiven year. And rifle shots close for company, same hunters who rouse your mother from our cold bed these Sunday mornings. Tonight, their random fire delivers one wounded year to the next, the first of all remaining when I won’t see you. ...

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