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christmas poetry

i make my shroud, but no one knows
world that changes under my hand
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
their beautiful hair
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
skies they were ashen and sober
the old west, the old time
the stars fell from heaven
all quiet along the potomac
long ago, in the young moonlight

 



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