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pumpkin poem

a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
on and on
i am dying
the earth keeps some vibration going
darkest, strangest mystery
there is a country full of wine
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
in mournful numbers
as i lie roofed in, screened in
i am a woman
i hold your heart
i love my hour of wind and light
who is the runner in the skies
i do not pray for peace

 



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