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A wall.
A blunt wall of human backs, arms, legs.
A gray bulwark with white round stains.
A defeated army in a cave, before maneuvers,
Waiting for doors to open.
Not cages unlatched, in uproar.
No…
Out of frayed sackcloth—breasts of filthy cataracts,
Like raw potatoes, branched with rooted blue veins.
What shall we trade? Salt? How much do you want?
There’s a dead child’s hat still here.
In…