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mother poem

brother, i am fire
as i lie roofed in, screened in
noises that strive to tear
gaily through the fields we danced
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
be patient, life, when love is at the gate
tell me less or tell me more
with lips blood red and heart of stone
to some the fat gods
why are the things that have no death
under dusky laurel leaf

 



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