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son poem

to come so soon to this imagined dark
over the river they beckon to me
still thirteen years
which i wish to remark
if i had known how narrow a prison is love
i despise my friends more than you
the snow whispers about me
i saw with open eyes
eighty years have passed, and more
a pen of steel
gone before us
in the cloud-gray mornings
wheel me down by the meadow
gone are the three, those sisters rare

 



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