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The wind blew down from Dugway, killing sheep.
They shivered much as naked children would,
And, leaden-tongued, they toppled over dead
In jerks and spasms hideous to see.
Had the wind been aiming at a city...
The flock that died was much more innocent.
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A sword enhilted red at least shows strength;
Where's honor in the breathing of your death?
To die by spooky toxins in the air
Released half-accidentally from drums
Carefully stockpiled in guarded desert
Is too painfully trivial for tears.
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Warfare is evidently here to stay,
But easing it beyond a certain point
(We poets have distrusted wiser heads
Since Plato gave the word to run us out)
Allows lopsided ingenuity
An edge on wisdom softened with kindness.
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An obvious omission comes to mind:
Nobel set up no prize for sanity.
Like falling snow that melts upon the ground,
Unduplicated flakes that pass away,
Are the doings of the clever but unwise...
The wind blew down from Dugway, killing sheep.
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