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O dear sweet rosy
how sad, no way
to change the mad
cultivated asphodel, the
and skin's appalling
to be so Iying in the living
room drunk naked
and dreaming, in the absence
over and over eating the low root
of the asphodel,
rolling in generation
on the flowery couch
as on a bank in Arden--
my only rose tonite's the treat
of my own nudity.
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