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My dears,

we never really know if

the light on the hill

 

is a brand new world –

 

what might that be exactly:

a sign of alien life,

some kind of angel from

the other side,

miraculous politics?

 

or just a carload of youths about to yell, ‘Fuckin’ faggot!’ –

 

as they drive past

their words do indeed come,

like a casually flung beer bottle,

before the smile and wave

and drive-off

 

But, my dears,

we go on, don’t we

we go on

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