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Late afternoon.
The Greeks and Trojans scuffle in the dust. The battle slips away to leave the plain Dead dust beneath the sun. A thing not death, not quite, though not quite life, Gropes for its name. Light is a stick which beats and stabs and hurts him. Wings baffle down to the dust. Claws trundle as his daze Mouths air, mouths blood To swallow a cough. His focus sharpens On a buzzard's eye black-hollowed, Puck-blank above a scrawny neck, Its motive knifing forward: Thus! Despite his spasm, the greeding puttock Jabs past a warding hand, Plucks a soft centre. And the thing with no scream Gapes at the blackness, And wishes it could die. |
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