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Ten thousand or more on the wood’s stained carpet:
polished eyes, too young yet for the rings they wear.

Staring down a heaven through puzzles of twigs;
up at a star, shattered to many by leaves.

These foolish playthings, spellbound as mediums, 
don’t foresee the games to come, fights to survive.

We will root for them, pigs bewitched by truffles –
gouge them out of sockets, get away unseen.

Our pockets will bulge with smooth, cyclopic orbs,
as we work this wood together … rob it blind.

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