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Please tell me how the shoehorn manages to keep
Its shape the same for centuries. At dusk my ignorance
Slips away and hides its eggs in the woods.
We all know when a great man or woman
Is about to die; and we fight that. Many of the Jews
Wanted to speak privately to Pilate.
Our parents' faces at dawn have so much grief
That they resemble those stone faces on Easter
Island, gazing toward some missing Friday.
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