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Poem	As a man and woman make a garden between them like a bed of stars, here they linger in the summer evening and the evening turns cold with their terror: it could all end, it is capable of devastation. All, all can be lost, through scented air the narrow columns uselessly rising, and beyond, a churning sea of poppies-- Hush, beloved. It doesn't matter to me how many summers I live to return: this one summer we have entered eternity. I felt your two hands bury me to release its splendor.
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