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wrap me in the soft, cool blanket of night. waning,the moon peers down at melike the heavy-lidded eye of some cyclops. and if I be lost like poor Odysseus,cloak me in the soft, warm wool of night. and if my eyes fail me like old Tiresias,stitch the cloth with…
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He'd sit or stand, as if this was common
to see: in the street walking by, such a man.
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this is where we end --
the exorbitant eye of forgotten days.
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The moon, a blonde eye,comes forward, smiles once. She backs away, shy.
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