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Poem	It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant's wife—among her five children . . . No answer. Pale shadows lie upon the frosted grass. One answer: It is midnight, it is still and it is cold . . . ! White thighs of the sky! a new answer out of the depths of my male belly: In April . . . In April I shall see again—In April! the round and perfects thighs of the Police Sergeant's wife perfect still after many babies. Oya!
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