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wedding poem

there is no flock, however watched and tended
looking beyond
glass-blower of time
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
i have heard them in the night
brother, i am fire
i burn no incense
gone are the three, those sisters rare
desolate and lone
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
beside a stricken field
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens

 



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