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we who stood
the saddest of the year
brief on a flying night
by the rude bridge
do not turn your head
beneath my window in a city street
long ago, in the young moonlight
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
i stand in the cold gray weather
your body's motion is like music
i am in love with high far-seeing places
let us plant
the snow whispers about me

 



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