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when I go to draw the face of Beloved
I see I can make no true form
in the line of a pen
in the curve of wet clay
for to worship is to draw close to the real
the one who cannot be repeated

what angle, what curl of hair
in this corner of memory
is quite like the body I know–
it is dark where his eyes fall
into shadowed circles of dusk
between daylight
and dreaming

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