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The Romantic Eros Your name is Nothing. God without being, sly, Your forms seem infinite and always lie. Passion ignores what is to reach for you, Untouchable, unanswering, untrue. All that I am not, cannot be, and was You promise in seducing me, because, Unreal, you realize yourself in me. I thought my coldness was your property. Fled from your country I look back and see Gray boulders, broken mountains, one high tree, Infertile, windless, where the black dogs hover, Self-eaten, not in time or space, but never. For I now judge what is, be it this or this, To be a good. Evil is not what is, But is good’s absence, construed as absolute For passion’s paradoxical pursuit. Careless of what I cannot keep though rare, My restless hand, no shadow moving there, Touches what is and lets it go alone, Both child and friend, loved and unloved—thus known.  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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