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prose poetry

have you heard
give me
all those treasures that lie
i love my life, but not too well
before the solemn bronze saint
dark-eyed
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
shades of night were falling fast
do the boys and girls still go
i am singing to you
there are gains for all our losses
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars

 



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