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To Dorothy

by
 You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.
You let a weed grow by the mulberry And a mulberry grow by the house.
So close, in the personal quiet Of a windy night, it brushes the wall And sweeps away the day till we sleep.
A child said it, and it seemed true: "Things that are lost are all equal.
" But it isn't true.
If I lost you, The air wouldn't move, nor the tree grow.
Someone would pull the weed, my flower.
The quiet wouldn't be yours.
If I lost you, I'd have to ask the grass to let me sleep.

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