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—55 If Orpheus Were Honest with Her Today I am afraid of ghosts, the things I searched for in you, sang of you. Shining hazard, roundabout, piece of myself you’ve never seen: never your somewhat puzzled self, combing out your westering hair, shaking your head at something you’ve just read. (Days and nights I spent as contradiction, tattered flag which now goes by your name.) I look back or don’t look back, I can’t remember now how I will write it down, or come to think such words were mine. The poems that ratified your loss would have been self-portraits stripped of all defense. (There you are pinned to the lyric distance, small point of reference I call love.) I’d stare into your eyes, fall somewhere in between, while you faded further into someone else’s underworld, a flickering affliction the color of a muse. shepherd text-2.indd 55 11/22/10 2:07 PM ...

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