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 Hurricane Baby They lie there in the golden afterglow Of hurricane and twilight and the slow Powerless hours through which they’ll stay so still Till air moves cool past each wet windowsill. Outside spent gales adrift in sweet release Blow mild by flattened cane until they cease. Blue herons high in cypress preen and sleep, Their hours those primal hours all beings keep. And with the clocks, A/C, and TV dead, No light for books, they have the dark instead In which he turns to touch, then kiss her there Lost in a gentle storm of flesh and hair. ...

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