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Eclipse of the Moon

Can you regret you loosed me on the night?
Dawn broke for me once, your years ago,
but what's been long for you, metered and slow,
has not occurred for me without hindsight:
it's just that I must look into the bag of the bee.
Your tears say you think you're not mate at all
for a pollendust swing in the past. But, love,
recall
the dance of direction — love octagonally.
It's not a sense of pattern that you lack:
your making shows a certain glance ahead
and you're wild when the dew bedizens your hanging
roads.
Look, you say, look, with heat's suppress on your
voice,
But, love, I've loved before. Dew could rejoice
ten years ago in all the major modes.
You know this part of our complex design.
Don't be impatient. Flowers come again
new-dusted, and just because of a now and then
don't sting me to death or retract. You're doing
fine.
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to one away in Africa
what a good life
to sit in one place
day after day
unless in distress
or pity
not to move
my feeling here for you is rooted
in a sandy soil
it grows tenaciously
but yesterday
a stalk of my mother-of-millions —
the plant which scatters itself daily
in tiny seedlings
and is thus replenished
and not diminished —
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