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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…
Why, death, do you tarry so?
Why does your chariot come so slow?
Old age has prepared for me
Every illness and complaint.
What good are my hundred years?
If such pain I undergo—
Why, death…