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death poem

there are gains for all our losses
those black eyes i once so praised
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
she must go back, she said
i do not pray for peace
afraid no more, i say
and with the humming bird
long ago, in the young moonlight
a very remarkable history this is
where shall i find you
stuff of the moon
with the meek, brown eyes
did you ever hear of
he came and took me by the hand

 



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