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Bulbs

Many journalists, and not many friends

Around the encumbered tomb

Around the brilliant panoply

Beneath the dreadful moon


Many shattered bulbs, and men

Attend sepulchral cues

And when sepulchral rings the wind

The scattered glass will move


The motorcade and all its kin

Away from nascent mound

Will glide along like rivers

Like the dew upon the ground

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