1
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The woman is perfected
Her dead
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Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
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5
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Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
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Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
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10
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Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
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Pitcher of milk, now empty
She has folded
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Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
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15
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Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
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The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
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20
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She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
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