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Alex Mepham




The evening has come
and once again we are collected

by an unlit barn.
We are still not permitted

to light the torches.
The cloaked man recites the stories

of those who might have lived
but died in mysterious ways—

we know them all by now.
We are instructed

to howl at the wind
in unison: this will bring change,

or at least summon something
we think will bring change.

We’ve gathered here for a while
though I’ve forgotten when this all started.

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