The Second Poem by nathan martin

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the half drawn eyelid son grew weary under his lamp
next to the shade that drew his voice to a sigh.

slight the long shadow and grieve a mother.


the less saught after second born
son of abraham.

slaughterhouse drunk son of a b
dont turn to fast now or you might spin him.

slow the hours of the day.

slower still now the second glance.

the frail hand on the wall permits a
little stillness if only for a moment.