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45 at night The things left undone Are looking at us with their enquiring glances They see through our schedule They know we have been putting them off a lot That somewhere The things done Are sitting around, listening to my record-player, smoking my cigars, wearing my slippers, and drinking wine from my long-stemmed glasses, and feeling very well in general Because they are the things attended to initially. It’s arbitrary, though: I would just as soon have kissed you behind the thigh where your hair starts to become unexpectedly curly As on that particular spot beneath your ear which curves like a rowboat Overturned and found On a steep beach At night. ...

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