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angel poem

the air is full of dawn and spring
it was a tall young oysterman
the body may confine
i stood
stuff of the moon
i do not pray for peace
when i go back to earth
why do
to be able to see every side of every question
looking beyond
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
she was a beauty in the days
the pale day drowses on the western steep

 



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