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sex poem

do not turn your head
why are the things that have no death
when i was broke in london
lived by the river-side
one by one, like leaves from a tree
i am dying
burly, dozing humble-bee
stuff of the moon
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
i am fevered
in their ragged regimentals
there are gains for all our losses
so lost
god

 



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