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mom poem

thou unrelenting past
arched the flood
before the solemn bronze saint
stuff of the moon
this is the song of youth
why are the things that have no death
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
beautiful, tragical faces
a little peach in the orchard grew
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
take my bracelets

 



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