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Poem	Not yet 40, my beard is already white. Not yet awake, my eyes are puffy and red, like a child who has cried too much. What is more disagreeable than last night's wine? I'll shave. I'll stick my head in the cold spring and look around at the pebbles. Maybe I can eat a can of peaches. Then I can finish the rest of the wine, write poems 'til I'm drunk again, and when the afternoon breeze comes up I'll sleep until I see the moon and the dark trees and the nibbling deer and hear the quarreling coons
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