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baby shower poem

hang no wreath
the swan existing
blossoms of babies
brother, i am fire
storm
my son is dead and i am going blind
the dawn was apple-green
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
what spiteful chance steals unawares
thoughts through my head
here lies a most beautiful lady
why then, must we see?
you are clear
burly, dozing humble-bee

 



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