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prose poetry

sing again the song you sung
there was a strangeness on your lips
up from the south at break of day
did you ever hear of
they in the darkness gather and ask
very well, you liberals
lo! 'tis a gala night
brief on a flying night
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
up from the meadows rich with corn
braided and woven
she must go back, she said

 



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