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the 1
michelle o'sullivan
there's a gleam to the trees and meadow
that 2 on something heartsick;
convent quiet,
and rich as a jeweller's window.
facing the lake-water is your bull.
he's concentrated and arcane,
his dutch yellows make him look mild;
you think he sings to himself.
like you, he seems to have had
a grasp of what it was to love.
what it is.
and he's lost it.
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