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life poetry

with the meek, brown eyes
i know what you're going to say
long ago, in the young moonlight
night is dark, and the winter winds
i reside at table mountain
roses and gold
though i am little as all little things
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
perhaps it is no matter that you died
there was a strangeness on your lips
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
in the sphere

 



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