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O Breath

 Beneath that loved and celebrated breast,
silent, bored really blindly veined,
grieves, maybe lives and lets
live, passes bets,
something moving but invisibly,
and with what clamor why restrained
I cannot fathom even a ripple.
(See the thin flying of nine black hairs four around one five the other nipple, flying almost intolerably on your own breath.
) Equivocal, but what we have in common's bound to be there, whatever we must own equivalents for, something that maybe I could bargain with and make a separate peace beneath within if never with.

by Elizabeth Bishop
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