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Which shift is this? Who is in charge
Of the flights of fancy that loom, large
As life, but made of plaster,
Moving days along as fast, but faster
Than the tinskinned hide facing
The coppercovered players racing
Across the board, making, breaking
Covenants, brushing aside, taking
Lives as sweeping as a torrent,
Making love and life itself abhorrent.
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