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marriage poem

perhaps it is no matter that you died
let me be sad
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
your body's motion is like music
some of the hurts you have cured
glooms of the live-oaks
i burn no incense
do not turn your head
braided and woven
the ancient songs
beside a stricken field
a little peach in the orchard grew

 



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