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Poem	HOW many feet ran with sunlight, water, and air? What little devils shaken of laughter, cramming their little ribs with chuckles, Fixed this lone red tulip, a woman’s mouth of passion kisses, a nun’s mouth of sweet thinking, here topping a straight line of green, a pillar stem? Who hurled this bomb of red caresses?—nodding balloon-film shooting its wireless every fraction of a second these June days: Love me before I die; Love me—love me now.
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