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narrative poetry

my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
i wonder where you live
i had over-prepared the event
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
a storm is riding on the tide
it was a tall young oysterman
if i should die, think only this of me
from song and dream for ever gone
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
my sorrow, when she's here with me
do i like it

 



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