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She is a little continent complete
With two blue lakes where every object drowns,
Two proud peninsulas of legs and feet,
A plain of face filled with familiar towns,
Her mouth is a small cave from which birds fly
Over the cleft cliff of her white chin,
Along her back are fields of sun-brown rye,
Rivers of heart-rainfall flow through her skin.
And in her head are reckoning and rock,
Mountains of hope whose ranges have no name,
Where days float dowp like feathers without shock,
Beaches where she may walk without a mark
At night along a foaming shore of shame,
Moving from darkness into utter dark.
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