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suicide poem

it was a tall young oysterman
listen to the sounding sea
do the boys and girls still go
in the dark and peace of my final bed
backward, turn backward
green afternoon serene and bright
she limps with halting painful pace
love me at last, or if you will not
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
you are beautiful and faded
with the meek, brown eyes
babylon-where i go dreaming
mysterious night
in his guarded tent

 



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