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love poem

often is it not so?
love me at last, or if you will not
three years ago today
above them all, looking down
up from the south at break of day
over the rooftops race the shadows of clouds
i stand in the cold gray weather
good woman
the air is like a butterfly
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
and my name is truthful
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
perhaps it is no matter that you died
splendid and terrible your love

 



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