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dancing stones

always died, persons once alive 
drained and dried,
the pulp 
goes quilted back beside 
the creature folk,
where claw and breast lay humble, where all undress eventual
while sleeping sound 
the pieces tilled above ground
sweeping our good ashes 
in their mouths one way, another,
no matter, all waving palms one day 
turn out the same dancing stones

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