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sorry poem

before the solemn bronze saint
there was a strangeness on your lips
at midnight
white foam flower, red flame flower
brief on a flying night
they in the darkness gather and ask
babylon-where i go dreaming
up from the meadows rich with corn
i have known the silence of the stars and of the sea
evidenced in the glimmer in your eyes
out of the window a sea of green trees
softly weeping
tell me not

 



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