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sleep, gray brother of death
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
above them all, looking down
world that changes under my hand
why are the things that have no death
sweet with fern and rose
and with the humming bird
storm
a pen of steel
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
high walls and huge
i said, i have shut my heart
tell me
there is no flock, however watched and tended

 



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