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pumpkin poem

the old west, the old time
with her hair flaying wildly
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
last midnight
city that is not a city
she knows a cheap release
up from the south at break of day
out of the window a sea of green trees
rose and amber was the sunset on the river
it was a tall young oysterman
listen to the sounding sea
sadly speaking
storm
i saw god. do you doubt it?

 



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