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Bolts
of Java print
lithe with dancers
lie down in your room.

Our frenzied passions
are lost midst mass
reproductions
of unspectacular intimacy.

At night from this height
streets of brilliant light
pour themselves
into dark sluggish seas.

Someone’s radio melodies
ebb and siphon up
sensual rhythms
to sleeping ears.

What shall we say of this age?
That soil hardens – beyond – belief,
and rain lingers no more
but washes patterns clear away.

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