in my dream
like Alma i was
shot and again
and again
one true bullet hit
you took me down my
bairn my little bairn
yellow haired and all
you took me down
you, visiting
the horse's grave
you took me down
you and the grandfather's
clock
you took me down
the dregs in
your teacup there on the desk
they take me down
you think me healthy
and natural
milk-glass or bees' wax
or good steady light
i think me
temperamental weather
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March
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1 comment:
this, and your last poem, actually all your recent work, are so very lyrical. from what i'm told, the most primary goal of poets has been to sound like a song. you succeed and then some
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