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79 Southernmost Love Poem The hibiscus that ventures out from under The banyan tree never looks out of sorts or bloom, But in fact each rich red affair is a matter of a day Or two at best, a miracle of compression If not confusion—at once a grand opening gala And a going-out-of-business sale— Like the thunderstorms that hang out their staticky Laundry beneath the cloudless tropic blue, Or the beautiful red-haired woman who lifts Her skirt hip-high wading out to the rocks, Taking a walk and a swim at the same time, Afraid to miss a thing. Even I, admiring Her grace against the current to the point of tears, Keep the apology that would end our quarrel Straining on its leash. Since perfection is, Among our imperfect kind, no more, I suppose, Than perfect balance, our love leaves nothing To be desired, only occasionally adjusted for, The way the wind snaps off fresh blossoms To make way for a restless procession of buds. ...

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