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Look at a child’s index finger and thumb

So gentle a vise

Even bread is astonished

Utterly good, perhaps

That Hand has killed a bird

And trembles with its final spasm

Its quick, weasel-like denial that would stop it

But who stops it?

This gap in our ruined heart

Do not dare name them, those half-Gods

Hardly one allowed in our dark nothings…

Youth is wasted on the young

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