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Today my tongue is a fish’s tongue, kissing my friend’s light breastbone, his chestnut down; full of tears, full of light, half both, nowhere near my old home: no one anywhere is so wrong. Tonight I Can Write. . . after Pablo Neruda Tonight I can write the lightest lines. Write, for example, ‘The evening is warm and the white mist holds our houses close.’ The little evening wind walks in the field grass and hums into her own chest. Tonight I can write the lightest lines. I love him, and I think he loves me too. He first came to me on an evening like this one and held me in his arms. He kissed me again and again then, under the motherly bending down stars. He loves me, and I think I love him too. How could one not love his calm eyes, as blue as the earth. Tonight I can write the lightest lines. To think that I did not know him, that now I am beginning to know him. To feel the warm lamplight: soon it will warm his brown arm. ‘And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture . . . ’ home.deep.blue 179 ...

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