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sad death poem

candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
though i am little as all little things
never in all my life
from our hidden places
this ancient silver bowl of mine
therefore i may not
are you awake?
the old west, the old time
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
in the cloud-gray mornings
if it
i see all human wits
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
beneath my window in a city street

 



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