Now I’ll make a life unlike the old
terracotta baked in plaster mold
Then I’ll stitch a curtain for the skin
to keep the bastard toms from looking in
Planted in the ear a small device
to cleanse the heart of hate and artifice
Last I’ll dig a moat from eye to gut
to rush the blood at sight of rising dust
And when the time unpacks a fateful load
the pit returns the peach and hits the road
A spell for starting over
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