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Oxen of the Sun 391
The living wind and reason can
Give us cause to belong to water
Floundering in waves waiting for persuasion
We can be seen, our poor names
Written in tonight’s harbor.
What sum increases the rain?
Or will we be happy in this rogue’s game
Of charmed but stolen harvest?
The unknowing prophet
Delivers us our breath but uses it
To start fires in our reason.
Where we hanker for this hot sport
I hear the old telling tongue
And pierce the sore belly of truth
To warm myself alongside its issue.
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