shambles piled: maybe another parade
An evident gray, a slow march
and legions rudderless; an ordinary flow
These none of them quite real, none present,
like mischief in a dream: the blue garment, the rusty blade
Came late or have you come late or are you, you are late
Then on into wakened sobriety's itch.
The great stalks move slightly, They press back
Waiting folds upward into a shape
To be seen later , or not seen, not now, not later
Take hold of this garment, this was said
The thrust of these instructions.
Take hold of this blade
(read at 4am in a tent with the rain and howling wind)
((read in utter awe and contentment))
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