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The requisite pain of disenfranchisement cries: “America! America!”
But — 
Every inert spot of time is ready to be wiped away
As tears by Delmore’s mother.

And she does, in the aftermath, with uncanny accuracy,
Call us in for supper,
Telling you and me that these words are accurate. 
Imagine our surprise
But — 
We are scarcely able to envision the future 
Instead we’ll project an exhilarated Whitman again.

EXCERPT from DELMORE’S STREET CRED by J.T.BLEU

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