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While we were sleeping (it was summertime,
a slight breeze curtained the house, purple
and white) schoolboys giggled in the yard,
in the full glare of the sun, and I was, yes,
like a cloud.
That was me in my lovelihood. For the occasion
of my arrival into the shape of a man: my hands
were small beside His, of milk, and holy,
and wondering. Perfume of cigarettes. Photos
of schoolboys, a pretty man, me.
"What is Hell?" I asked. He giggled and looked
like a boy, "It is nothing, nothing. It is a passage,
a portal, a window, a breeze." Thankful, I
was born again, entered Hell and was revived.
Tossed bottles of years rolled to the coast,
full of photos, gloves, shoes, treasures of things
I, unhappily, couldn't open; now open again,
arriving at the remarkable destination: the white-washed coast.
A kitchen in summer, lunchtime, milk
and sugar. The water in a glass is silver, important.
I looked like a boy, a cat, a sheet of love.
I looked like me; looked to the window, hinges
slung and mustard-colored, to the yard, the street,
the buildings in the sun. It was summer. I was sleeping,
alone, happily, and I was (dear me) like a cloud.
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