at the beating of our capitulation
turning for help we found
the poem was merely a mirror
no more than no more
so we smashed it
licked at the silver sinews
and spoke in bloody tongues
corked in the swallowing
bloodshot eyes staring retort
we throttled their fisted throats
stamped the impression that we had won
but the words reassembled
mercurially re-globulating
the poem shivered at its newness
its fragility burnishing its finality
how the insane laughed and laughed
at this
at the beating of our capitulation
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