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birthday poetry

night was black and drear
beautiful
i love my life, but not too well
it was a tall young oysterman
for truth, for love
who is the runner in the skies
i make my shroud, but no one knows
that year
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
the old west, the old time
sing again the song you sung
braided and woven
doubtless i remember still

 



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