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poetry for kid

a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
in new york harbor
this ancient silver bowl of mine
at dawn, he said
and breaketh bread no more
i am fevered
simply speaking
who is the runner in the skies
in the cloud-gray mornings
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
stir
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
all down the years
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb

 



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