The trick is to have just enough
to rouse the raw, and rest the rough,
and hold, and hold, and keep it fed,
lest wake the rested, festered dread
that bends the heavy bottom shelf –
it waits for me to less my health –
and not but fifty feet from here,
the train blares high (and low) in fear
of lost, of poor, of tired souls
who head, who sink, who long for


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