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family poem

the endless, foolish merriment of stars
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
they in the darkness gather and ask
i make my shroud, but no one knows
with the sunset
so lost
love me at last, or if you will not
now that i have cooled to you
the sun is up
be not false
i am dying
it was a tall young oysterman

 



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