A hawk skims the exterior 

of the interior hill—piercing non-syllables 

      you cannot dream—;      its sound is extreme,

    red-rick-rack on a hill,       red’s arid

shadow on the other side,

     chattering with dead men in dead books,

shattering with red men in red nooks,

    no more anger than he’s 

       supposed to do, but

angry enough, check-check-check,

          not angry enough to not to,      & who

are we to judge at the edges, & where,

    who throw money at death

    who throw money at death

    who throw money at death

    who throw money at death

    who throw money at death

              who throw money at death

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