The Ink Has Dried

The good has died.

What’s left is sick, the eyes are pyed,

For Jesus sake we can’t talk dried.

So strike one up for baby-scythe,

I figured, what, three months ago,

When what thought good was once dropped side,

I can’t believe you haven’t died

a little, though you haven’t cried

That necessary tear to know

a quickening of ripping roe.

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