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prose poetry

sleep, gray brother of death
for truth, for love
she knows a cheap release
under the harvest moon
that year
one by one, like leaves from a tree
all those treasures that lie
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
are you alive?
what spiteful chance steals unawares
in halls of sleep you wandered by
often i think of the beautiful town
out of the window a sea of green trees

 



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