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But the crocus is up, and the lark, and the blundering Blood knows what it knows.
It talks to itself all night, like a sliding moonlit sea. At dawn, where the ocean has netted its catch of lights, The sun plants one lithe foot On that spill of mirrors, but the blood goes worming through Its warm Arabian nights, Naming your pounding name again in the dark heart-root. Anyway, I should want you to know I have done my best, As I'm sure you have, too.
Others are bound to us, the gentle and blameless Whose names are not confessed In the ceaseless palaver.
The woman who is in love with a married man lives a life that, for the most part, is shrouded in secrecy.
Her close circle of friends might know about her affair, but she really cannot let anyone else, such as colleagues or her family, know.
But I would have you know that all is not well With a man dead set to ignore The endless repetitions of his own murmurous blood.