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grandma poem

i loathed you
all those treasures that lie
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
up from the south at break of day
why are the things that have no death
gloom
beautiful, tragical faces
i make my shroud, but no one knows
very well, you liberals
a pen of steel
we break the glass whose sacred wine
gone before us
those black eyes i once so praised

 



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