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Fig for nuance, you plant the pole
arbitrarily and wrap yourself around it,
round and round the pole.

Breath dissembles. These my lungs
used to drawing in fog. These my eyes
accustomed to polished silver.
Sight deceives.

Oh, but staid and solid mortal sword
of truth and justice and the holy jihad
you haven’t the pebbled shoe most
halt to examine.

You were born without it.
Unlike the truth of truths,
folded threnody under stone.