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suicide poem

the darkness rolls upward
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
before the solemn bronze saint
who will be naming the wind
babylon-where i go dreaming
with lips blood red and heart of stone
her face is fair and smooth and fine
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
the saddest of the year
earth travails
some of the hurts you have cured
out of the sparkling sea
why are the things that have no death

 



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