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prose poetry

it was a tall young oysterman
tripping up, falling down
grieve not for the invisible
there was a strangeness on your lips
and so it goes
when the hours of day are numbered
that year
for truth, for love
so fallen
those black eyes i once so praised
once this soft turf
now that i have cooled to you
i had a dream and i awoke with it

 



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