Tell me, you, who never attained Christ’s age—my sweet summer despoiler, Did an errant thunderbolt claim me? Did I die there in that rain-washed grove?— All I know is, My irreplaceable first man, My amorous prize in the storm, I can’t relinquish our windblown Bamboo labyrinth, I can’t rest without reclaiming That bonanza of rain on my flesh— Volume 8 No 1 - Page 25

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