A broken foot will shoot you
With lightning fractures in bone,
Until your only sky is the blue
Of a dreary room of stone.
The leg that woke to memory
Of its first failing will give
All its debts to a brother free,
Bound to new strength conceive.
The bazaars will craft of you
A doddering six-foot circus tent,
Make of every unblemished hue
The contrast you never intend.
Fair-weather, foul-weather friends
Will make campfire at your bed,
Their laughter shall slyly lend
Wet color to every frayed thread.
Watch hot seconds become lame,
Limp away cold noons on a dry race,
Every deed will strike its name,
And show you its naked face.
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