Every morning I arise to the sound of geese against sky—
wishing it were seagulls over grain.
Never to have been broken by love;
But by the notion: People are so easily fooled.
Once in a yellow moon in the depthened cold of
December nigh,
I nocturnally listen for your lusting high:
The hunt of the eyes of the young
Women for a leitmotiv in passion—
Divine. Rhythm.
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