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suicide poetry

tell me less or tell me more
softly now the light of day
my soul is a dark ploughed field
that strange companion came on shuffling feet
beautiful
it was many and many a year ago
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
all those treasures that lie
green afternoon serene and bright
in new york harbor
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
she must go back, she said
he's gone
i shake my hair in the wind of morning

 



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