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By Jack Joseph Smith
Wounds
A Cyoti in the eye, a hawk in the sky;
No parts of God, no acknowledgement
of the hearafter
When I left the winter and wanted spring
Why was I unable to settle im
This corse across the land
treaded by
The slightest in the nitch
did better than I
I think I thought that thought
was the vision I had
Courageous and weak acts
There is no middle ground
with wounds