Voices were used like nails
Like the broken laps of the roadside
Like the staples through the fingers
Like the traffic signs for thieves

Voices from headless giants
That switched on dull winter lights
That overturned the peasants’ tables
And thundered across bare floorboards

Voices who began their stories
Like prefaces to empty books
Whose dismembered wings fell in the wild grass
And that never made it to the sun

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