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writing poetry

they ask me where i've been
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
through the broad earth's aching breast
i make my shroud, but no one knows
by the rude bridge
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
there was a time in former years
i go my way complacently
under dusky laurel leaf
soft as the bed in the earth
when i returned at sunset
gone before us
there are three ways in which men take
your body's motion is like music

 



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