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type of poetry

though i am little as all little things
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
there by the window in the old house
very well, you liberals
for then without
stern cold man
this is the arsenal
shades of night were falling fast
i wonder where you live
i am dying
have you not heard
the endless, foolish merriment of stars

 



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