Frank Marshall Davis quotes

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Slowly the night blooms, unfurling
Flowers of darkness, covering
The trellised sky, becoming
A bouquet of blackness
The young woman-smell
Of your poppy body
Rises to my brain as opium
Night's brittle song, silver-thin
Shatters into a billion fragments
Night comes to the room of the world
Night is a curious child, wandering
Between earth and sky, creeping
Robert Whitmore
died of apoplexy
when a stranger from Georgia
mistook him
for a former Macon waiter.
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