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dark poetry

i can not tell you now
in the sphere
perhaps it is no matter that you died
as i lie roofed in, screened in
a few more windy days
now while my lips are living
by the rude bridge
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
are you awake?
to clothe the fiery thought
a little peach in the orchard grew
over the river they beckon to me
in their ragged regimentals

 



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