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son poem

there are gains for all our losses
storm
above them all, looking down
i have seen the proudest stars
in your flight
the arches of the red bridge
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
the old west, the old time
sleep, gray brother of death
musing, between the sunset and the dark

 



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