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short poem

i am singing to you
from our hidden places
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
perhaps
my son is dead and i am going blind
tripping up, falling down
the long resounding marble corridors
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
beautiful, tragical faces
the swan existing
i've won the race
love me at last, or if you will not
there by the window in the old house
as a naked man i go

 



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