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sad poem

i am a woman
these be
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
there are three ways in which men take
in all things not spoken of
uplifting, as the wind blew
those black eyes i once so praised
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
in and of itself
perhaps it is no matter that you died
to come so soon to this imagined dark
i bid them all farewell

 



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