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Keats
- University of Georgia Press
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308 f r o m t h e j u i c e k e a t s beneath whatever kind of shirt his shoulders are whales again moving now under gardens in Italy his face turns like a monastery in the afternoon his feet begin to loosen and make furrows in the soil his elbows rise from gravel to perch the trees fill up their lungs and wait when he arrives we stand up and stretch ourselves like the fingers of his hand ...