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funeral poem

i stood
i stand in the cold gray weather
to some the fat gods
i love my life, but not too well
the sun is up
desolate and lone
if i had known how narrow a prison is love
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
for these white arms about my neck
two rows of cabbages
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought

 



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