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All Fours As we ungrow older We sprout more legs Becoming sorry tripods And even quadrupeds Each foot shoots out A rubber shoe And shuffles that way Broken people do And care must be taken On polished floors Scrubbed of life Behind closed doors It isn’t far-fetched To imagine a herd Of long-lost men Dissolving in joy In an endless sea And upon the beach Sets of white gnashers And ceramic joints Time's full measure Of revamped oxygen Leaving them wordless And heavenly flotsam © David Incoll 2001 |
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Copyright by David Incoll 2001 |