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A POEM ABOUT BREASTS Already she seems bone thin When her clothes are on. The lightest wind blows Her dress toward the doorways. Everybody thinks he can see Her body longing to follow Helpless and miserable, Dreaming itself Into an apparition of loneliness, A spirit of vine wondering At a grape here and there, As the Septemberspider, The master,ascends Her long spine. Already she weighs more, yet She still bows down slightly, As I stand in her doorway. It's not hunching, it's only That children have been reaching Upward for years to gather Sweetness of her face. They are innocent and passionate Thieves of the secret hillsides. Now she rises, tall, round, round, And round again, and, again, round. SUN TAN AT DUSK When was the last time You remembered you Had gone out? A bee Blew past me. Jays Raised hell down stream, You rose up Slow out of the mountain pool. Color of doe out of green 176 ...

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