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A POEM FOR A CERTAIN LADY ON HER 33rd BIRTHDAY Who are we, S. S., to ride the curves of air or to worry about the waning moon? The mountains will not tremble and the sea will not give up her dead. Time is now, said the African Poet. Unfelt as our touch across these seasons unending as the circle of our dead fathers and unborn sonsthe rise and fall of our laughterthe measure of our steps as we move to each other. Years are the strips of tinsel hanging on hunky brains Our time is the constant blooming of our love. .28 ...

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