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memorial poem

from our hidden places
they ask me where i've been
out of me unworthy and unknown
beautiful
birds against the april wind
if it
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
when the wind works against us in the dark
melancholy, blue it was
those black eyes i once so praised
i make my shroud, but no one knows

 



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