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type of poem

so fallen
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
god
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
when i returned at sunset
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
are you alive?
rocked in the cradle of the deep
eighty years have passed, and more
thoughts through my head
one sweetly solemn thought
be not angry with me
braided and woven

 



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