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Perhaps, seeing beyond that night,
we loved long and sure.
Still, not even you could keep us
from that particular end,
You could calmly wait for love
and had the will.
I was not that true nor sane.
And now in my lucid, indigo dreams
disclosure not heard by you.
For I desire mashed potatoes
I'm over silky beds and empty tables
Longing for that long discarded love
only your slender volume of poetry remains.
Not the poem which we have read, but that to which we return, with the greatest pleasure, possesses the power and claims the name of essential poetry.