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brother poem

the ancient songs
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
days endeared to every muse
god
let us express our baser passions
the little white prayers
little park that i pass through
i stand in the cold gray weather
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
birds against the april wind
see the tentative
the body may confine

 



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