I would steal horses

for you, if there were any left,

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give a dozen of the best

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to your father, the auto mechanic

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in the small town where you were born

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and where he will die sometime by dark.

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I am afraid of his hands, which have

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rebuilt more of the small parts

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of this world than I ever will.

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I would sign treaties for you, take

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every promise as the last lie, the last

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point after which we both refuse the exact.

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I would wrap us both in old blankets,

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hold every disease tight against our skin.