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Trying To Write

 That day i finished
A small piece
For an obscure magazine
I popped it in the box

And such a starry elation
Came over me
That I got whistled at in the street
For the first time in a long time.
I was dirty and roughly dressed And had circles under my eyes And far far from flirtation But so full of completion Of a deed duly done An act of consummation That the freedom and force it engendered Shone and spun Out of my old raincoat.
It must have looked like love Or a fabulous free holiday To the young men sauntering Down Berwick Street.
I still think this is most mysterious For while I was writing it It was gritty it felt like self-abuse Constipation, desperately unsocial.
But done done done Everything in the world Flowed back Like a huge bonus.

Poem by Elizabeth Smart
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