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short poem

she was a beauty in the days
backward, turn backward
earth travails
she must go back, she said
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
glooms of the live-oaks
when, full of warm and eager love
for these white arms about my neck
since i have felt the sense of death
simplicity
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
from floor to ceiling

 



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