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bereft, mourning 35 Too Much Life Iris Litt Could I ever make poetry out of that crash of metal against stone that smash of bone and flesh that took the scurrying days punctuated with laughter and the wild firelit loving of evening that had nevertheless very much to do with babies? The only poetry is those babies who transplanted still like male trees kept growing and I unwillingly living beyond that crash in the matter-of-fact morning. I am coming eventually to where you are but not to join you, my love, as we planned. You left too much life in between, too many babies, too many evenings in the morning of my life. ...

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