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Possum work, world's windowlust, lens of the Byzantine--
Friday in Appalachia.
Hold on, old skeletal life,
there's more to come, if I hear right.
Still, even the brightest angel is darkened by time,
Even the sharpest machine
dulled and distanced by death.
Wick-end of August, wicked once-weight of summer's sink and sigh.
September now, set to set foot on the other side,
Hurricanes sprouting like daisy heads around her lap.
We know where she's been. We know
What big secret she keeps,
so dark and dungeoned, and wish her well,
Praying that she will whisper it to us
just once, just this once.
The secret of language is the secret of disease.