the strangled
voices of angels
scream!
from the throats
of ancient mountains
cut against the cobalt
sky
somewhere
in the belly of america.
she's so beautiful,
isn't she?
the way she dies
like that?
with her rippling ridges, and old covered bridges,
windswept prairies and cloud-kissed cities?
yet
nothing dies
quite like december
in the sunburned arms
of summer.
arise!
it's the sleeping man
afraid of losing
who never sees the world.
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