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This poem is taken from PN Review 233, Volume 43 Number 3, January - February 2017.

Fulehung & other poems John Fuller
Fulehung

The Fulehung like a lunatic
With a bouncing bladder on a stick
Runs through the streets of Thun.
Its mask is horned, its mouth a slit,
Half terror, half buffoon.
There is no stopping it.

The memory of where I stood
In those deserted streets
Beneath an icy demilune
Comes back to me, for though
I ran as hard as ever I could,
I did not stir a foot.

The Fulehung will find me
In the silent shadowed square.
The Fulehung will find me
Although I am not there.
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