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brother poem

like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
in mournful numbers
take my bracelets
from our hidden places
glooms of the live-oaks
she heard the children playing in the sun
passing through huddled and ugly walls
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
blossoms of babies
master of human destinies am i
i walk down the garden paths
city that is not a city
sweet splendor

 



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