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Complaint

by
 They call me and I go.
It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
The door opens.
I smile, enter and shake off the cold.
Here is a great woman on her side in the bed.
She is sick, perhaps vomiting, perhaps laboring to give birth to a tenth child.
Joy! Joy! Night is a room darkened for lovers, through the jalousies the sun has sent one golden needle! I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.

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Analysis and Comments on Complaint

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