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death poem

we were not many
beneath my window in a city street
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
there are three ways in which men take
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
my true love from her pillow rose
your body's motion is like music
lo! 'tis a gala night
gone before us
a life on the ocean wave
last midnight

 



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