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type of poem

when i go back to earth
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
darkest, strangest mystery
to come so soon to this imagined dark
i make my shroud, but no one knows
a few more windy days
it was the autumn of the year
the long resounding marble corridors
i have known the silence of the stars and of the sea
made up of loveliness alone
at dawn, he said

 



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