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February 5, 2007 / zanzi

quur foartets

i watched it simmer inside me

and saw the evil smoulder

the comfort, when in bed had lain

my body, made me burn.

like sisyphus to heave

for ever against a boulder

is a story as whose twain

listlessness makes me turn.

sometimes i think i’ll leave

when this world can get no colder

but such thoughts are in vain

when the breath of you returns.

i know it is a humble plea

(lest familiar become older):

as eyelids, ever again

fresh with the morning, to unfurl.

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