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suicide poem

the old west, the old time
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
the stars fell from heaven
and how could you dream of meeting
no prey am i of poor thoughts
you are my companion
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
in new york harbor
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
very well, you liberals
i made a vow once, one only
i do not pray for peace
sleep, gray brother of death
she knows a cheap release

 



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