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Going going
For Aesculus hippocastanum
After five hundred years it comes to this:
branches lit like candelabras;
tongues of fire yet no language for pain.
No way to tell their young this might be it –
know if these none-ers will conquer,
shield the little urchins from their fall.
Maybe they’ll go the way of white dog shit,
of Readers’ Wives, stuffed in bushes;
of coalmen, twin tubs, saving for things.
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