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in the morning august in the mourning
with her feet doubled in the water
gently the river clay grows heavy,
for a song and the last fruit of the crop
my basket overflowing; my collarbone
sloping and rushing to the ground
yellowing and reddening and maddening
into the freckles of the earth
dying in the valley where
the lake's bosom swells
with the waning mountain bloom
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the stars are colder tonight
YOU ARE READING
HUMAN PSYCHE
Poetrybecause that which makes us human is that which we think makes us less human
