unfinished poetry.

i started writing this poem in april and then moved on to other things. i don't think i'll be able to return to it any more, so for whatever it's worth, here:

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Of all that hold me accused, this

I know: my youth is spent 

on strangers. I have flung my

heart at tramps and travelling soldiers,

wayward boys under lamplights, greying

men at railstations with their

untold lives of embers and sweetness 

and sorrow.

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