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The suffering in the sunlight and the smell. And the bellowing and men weeping and screaming. And the horses wandering aimlessly and the heat. The living and the dead mixed, bleeding on one another. A palm with two fingers left attached Lying on the ground next to the hindquarters of a horse. A dying man literally without a face Pointed at where his face had been. He did this without a sound. The forty thousand dead and wounded stretched for miles In every direction from the tower. Not a cloud in the sky all day, the sunlight of hell. Bodies swelled and split, erupting their insides Like sausages on the fire.
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Author:Seidel, Frederick
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
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