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writing poetry

in new york harbor
i expect you
with the sunset
desolate and lone
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
the poets tell
be not false
from floor to ceiling
just as my fingers on these keys
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
within my hand i hold
if i should die, think only this of me
why are the things that have no death
a little peach in the orchard grew

 



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