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We’d crawl beneath the chain-link fence at night,
  sneak into the museum’s Grecian wing.
Then grab a priceless urn, and tempting fate,
  toss it in the air to feel the peril of breaking.
A game as old as death and gravity,
  you hold a heavy stone above your head,
    you let it fall an inch to test the lie
that things persist, you search for eternity,
  find it floating between alive and dead,
    you throw your infant child into the sky.
Posted 12/05/12
This poem follows the rhyme-scheme and meter of Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn." From a manuscript of poems called "Breakdown," wherein compound spondaic words are intentionally misinterpreted.
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