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cowboy poetry

see, from this counterfeit of him
this is the arsenal
skies they were ashen and sober
she must go back, she said
but alas, just dreams
a little peach in the orchard grew
who loves the rain
be not false
in the cloud-gray mornings
you are beautiful and faded
beneath my window in a city street
i saw god. do you doubt it?

 



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