A song in my soul for a hundred years,
A soaring mass composed for gods unreal.
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Darling, when this bottle is through
It shall be you that I devour.
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In one of the notebooks I do not write in
(it is full) there is an incomplete record of your frailty
that makes black markers in the pages;
your scorned, unhappy hair, from heaps
(how little I managed to save!)
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when I cut off your head
such things shall not be said
in couplets
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That flea with purpled blood, I fear it comes
Far out of dusty past in new hunger
(A priest, not wishing to be parasite,
Still steals the grandeur of any goddess,
A quick-snapped photograph can split a soul
Or send a boulder racing down a hill)
And it will cease when it has had its fill.
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Even if my words are thieved from Ovid
Nobody around would ever notice.
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