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Maybe the dead musician underneath Whispers to touch the woman's nakedness, To strike a fire inside the yearning rock. Brush aside that fantasy, I feel The wind of early autumn cross the ground, I turn among the stones to let it blow Clearly across my face as over stone. Bodiless yearnings make no music fall; Breath of the body bears the living sound. This dour musician died so long ago Even his granite beard is softened down. An age or so will wear away his grave, The lover who attains the girl be rain, The granite underneath be carved no more. Only the living body calls up love, That shadow risen casually from stone To clothe the nakedness of bare desire. A PRAYER IN MY SICKNESS la muerte entra y sale You hear the long roll of the plunging ground, The whistle of stones, the quail's cry in the grass. I stammer like a bird, I rasp like stone, I mutter, with gray hands upon my face. The earth blurs, beyond me, into dark. Spinning in such bewildered sleep, I need To know you, whirring above me, when I wake. Come down. Come down. I lie afraid. I have lain alien in my self so long, How can I understand love's angry tongue? THE COLD DIVINITIES I should have been delighted there to hear The woman and the boy, SAINT JUDAS 65 ...

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