The fight is gone, dearest one. Those ashes
are the exploding fool's, his blazing was.
The gloves I hold are ashamed, but I smile still
and wonder at the difference between that past while
and those hills, demons, worries and a thousand things more
that get all pulpy like sea plants along the shore
where some sore sailor probably glanced at
in passing. The colours of things swerve into white.
Oh darling, the world will award you the title
so long as law is gold and guilt its little law.
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