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Do not carry your remembrance.
Leave it, alone, in my breast,

tremor of a white cherry tree
in the torment of January.

There divides me from the dead
a wall of difficult dreams.

I give the pain of a fresh lily
for a heart of chalk.

All night long, in the orchard
my eyes, like two dogs.

All night long, quinces
of poison, flowing.

Sometimes the wind
is a tulip of fear,

a sick tulip,
daybreak of winter.

A wall of difficult dreams
divides me from the dead.
   john p green and ---
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