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grandma poem

she said
through the broad earth's aching breast
little park that i pass through
music i heard with you was more than music
let me move slowly through the street
what do i owe to you
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
this ancient silver bowl of mine
when the wind works against us in the dark
day is done
i do not pray for peace
a flying word from here and there
what shall we do now
in new york harbor

 



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