the dire wick and the stone muck

the rebellion stokes the 
   hurt fire,

the damp beckoning of green

the dire wick, the stone
   muck and much 


the gift of battle is a
   sworn sword,

a leaflet thorn out of
   a red book

that thumbs its echoes
   with vigor.

the eye of the little 'no' is
    a pinprick, 

the dust in the feather's

its grasp of matter and its
    debited song.

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