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Déjà Lu I read my first book through again, The poems of my messy twenties: The stench of misery rose up, Every last stanza stank of it. And at the time I thought I’d been So circumspect, impersonal, Threading my way through myths and meters . . . I’d never do that now of course. You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...
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