Here lies Martes Flavigula, eternally beneath the splintered earth.

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Poems -

How big wings must
one put on
an anvil to
have it rise from
the niggardly adolescence of
its pithy farmhouse into
the smithy waiting in
the razed citatel in
the clouds?

Along with martens, goulish goats and the rippling fen -
these writings 1993-2021 by Bob Murry Shelton are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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