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family poem

stuff of the moon
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
the body may confine
if the red slayer think he slays
the sky
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
beneath my window in a city street
when i go back to earth
what was it the engines said
there is no flock, however watched and tended

 



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