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Year
Stricken with arrhythmia, 
or so my doctor do say which, 
the name of an ancient queen,
Ethiopian, 
first century, leads
caravansary into 
dunes and
what remains undisclosed 

beyond weighted horizon,
 

to Her I yield my heart no 
matter its many loans overdue,

Here is my trifle then in 
earnest, a release. 

Call in the priest 
whose ancient hand's 
most unsteady, 
a lifetime of withholding.

I remain for the moment free.

Between St. Marks and the horizon my fingers still work. 
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