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love poem

beside a stricken field
musing, between the sunset and the dark
never in all my life
just as my fingers on these keys
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
softly weeping
three years ago today
why do
the poets tell
to some the fat gods
the agony of having too much power
under dusky laurel leaf
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
passing through huddled and ugly walls

 



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