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writing poetry

at dawn, he said
within my hand i hold
splendid and terrible your love
under dusky laurel leaf
i loathed you
burly, dozing humble-bee
as a white candle
the light withdrawn
she must go back, she said
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
i saw the clouds among the hills
on and on

 



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