A Letter From Home
From the Ides of May,
have I send a letter to be compassed
before the end to a start.
Be assumed of all glass eclipse in-ink,
of the reason to reason and resin to kill
the in exactable mind.
We have murdered something,
counting and cloaking the candor of our
hearts for no just precept.
Comely task, forgotten.
Here fore divulged and ever distrusted
I gnash in an inter-course.
Devise in cogitation as unveiled to
A full inchoate so full
approaches, listeners, crooks, pariahs, thief
approach, all strangers.
Powerless writer, write in power
from the start of the next ides to the end
of the next ides, I wait for your reply.
When congratulating yourselves, try to send
it home, for I am in home and not Rome.
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