the white teeth, you have found the mouth
of the bad ocean, the iron plate preacher
growling at its daily, nightly, lunar labor.
Sailing in sea breezes a spring step up
the heart of flame, a single fisted
fighter dared to touch us fiercely,
a pieman with a golden-brown face
declaring that his circle, in the center
of iron sea on iron salt sabers,
that these gathered would be warm, well fed, friends.
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