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Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Butterfly To Caterpillar

The reverse you are.
At eighty or with wife or grandchildren
youth hides in the umbra
a blurred image
shakes hand with the fallen leaf
a retired general
stars and guns are off.
How many times I fondled you
kissed theflowers
followed the flies
caressed the heaps
clasped the thighs
defined love differently.
Feminism haunts here
independence for all I cry aloud
reciprocation is the recipe of love--
all but me was an animal.
I brood like a caterpillar
the elevation of my soul.
Sin or sanctity covers the cabin
I am in it .
That's all.
At eighty that's all.

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