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prose poetry

fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
i said, i have shut my heart
these be
a thousand silent years ago
the swan existing
one by one, like leaves from a tree
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
the poets tell
when i was a boy at college
i was a goddess ere the marble found me

 



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