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75 spring offensive Gentle Love, Draw forth thy wounding dart —John Dowland That baby with a bow stands cocked on one foot in the garden, desire strung out to the breaking point and aimed at the spray fluting up from the birdbath, no deeper than the small well between your breasts. Or does it point against that far target, shadow of the big hand closing over the slow circle of the sundial? No one seems to mind his full frontal pouch and prod, a bud too antique or infantile to bloom. Beebalm and the butterfly bush send out new shoots; starlings lift off like loose shutters that clatter in the wind. If you would let yourself come open to this kiss, what tongue would wag the news or clack a nunnish no? That boy, unfledged as his arrow, dimples down on us, his lips releasing the archaic smile that only stone bestows. ...

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