How come absence defines form? Our rock is nothing more; we chisel at masterless stone, expecting David to emerge and carry us to the Promised Land on marble shoulders. Yet it is I, the Philistine Peering through my dear Goliath’s detached skull Ever-dripping with relentless spittle, that weeps A mother’s tears—O David! Embrace me in your gentle fist, that I might spasm at your whim!
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