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It’s the name that’s
sounded by rhythm and beaten
out into shadows, splashed
over caves and smeared over
spells. The reflection of lights
around it, each speck battling
for a share in vivacity,
broken polyphony, old horsemen waiting
for a moment
to be the last, to be drawn out
and given a name. The end where
father’s stop teaching suns to ride
and fire stops
dripping on hands to paint
and cities stop asking for
wings to melt.