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black poetry

backward, turn backward
before the solemn bronze saint
give me hunger
i reside at table mountain
her face is fair and smooth and fine
love me at last, or if you will not
i bid them all farewell
tell me less or tell me more
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
stuff of the moon
i saw him once before
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
the little white prayers
this is the arsenal

 



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