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cowboy poetry

come down at dawn from windless hills
death's nobility again
i can not tell you now
let us plant
white foam flower, red flame flower
braided and woven
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
i said
glooms of the live-oaks
my son is dead and i am going blind
the meadow was creeping
i saw the clouds among the hills
in mournful numbers

 



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