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birthday poetry

it was a tall young oysterman
in his guarded tent
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
see the tentative
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
before the solemn bronze saint
thou unrelenting past
tripping up, falling down
rocked in the cradle of the deep
i stand in the cold gray weather
give me hunger
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale

 



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