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concrete poetry

a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
i said
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
up to her chamber window
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
tripping up, falling down
i loathed you
before the solemn bronze saint
sleep, gray brother of death
i see all human wits
one sweetly solemn thought
little gate was reached at last
there is no flock, however watched and tended

 



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