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Sport 43: 2015



On the horizon the children wait for manna,
stand in dirt that gets buried in itself,
those chunks of land broken down in the mouths of tyrants

They wait in the distance between the birth of our nations,
pick the peeling paint of the last empire 
concrete scraped of the coating we gave it

They wait on blocks of granite and slippery ivy,
on the roundness of moons fully formed by the sky
with no help from mountaintop prophets