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suicide poetry

still thirteen years
just as my fingers on these keys
we break the glass whose sacred wine
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
as it
i flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying
among the mountains i wandered
calm as that second summer
i am singing to you
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
wrap the earth in cloudy weather
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans

 



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