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as i lie roofed in, screened in
stuff of the moon
who will be naming the wind
the little white prayers
above them all, looking down
for truth, for love
there are gains for all our losses
here falls no light
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
if i were very sure
long ago, in the young moonlight
splendid and terrible your love
gloom
i walk down the garden paths

 



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