Have you even sufficient breath
To speak of it with?
Could the sinewy sprawl
And humblest caul on stunned lung
And tensile arm incumb?
The archway descends
In the way of the Sun--
A parabola, a narrative
A ruin.
Was it the miracle of your first death --
That vault, up, then down,
City cranky but asleep, blood already brown--
Tell me,
Did you find those remnant beats your chest
Promised to thrive on
If found?
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