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| Forge I carry an umbrella to the forge. Under a blotted moon my hands burn. Thunder breaks the night, And me without my woolens. Time to butch up and sweep the ashes From the upset chest, cedar scented; Time to stoke the monster At the long end of the hall; Stick my fingers, my wrists, myself Straight into those fiery engines. Even a sheep can don a wolfish mantle— My umbrella closes an opening sky. |
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