at the far edge of earth, night
is going away. another
poem begins. slumped over

the typewriter i must get this
exactly, i want to make it
clear this morning that your

face,as it opens
from its shadow, is more
perfect than yesterday;and

that the light, as it
hesitates over the approach
of your smile, has given this

aching bed more than warmth,
more than poems; somewy

a generous rose, or a very
delicate arrangements of sounds,
has come to peace in this new room.

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