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suicide poetry

some one complained to the master
do not grieve that it is over
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
stuff of the moon
world that changes under my hand
long ago, in the young moonlight
glass-blower of time
braided and woven
in new york harbor
in the sphere
daughters of time
in halls of sleep you wandered by
wheel me down by the meadow
still her gray rocks tower above the sea

 



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