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The fire is an antelope of flame,
igniting the plain
wherever she hesitates.
She kisses my wrist, waits,
and watches the flush of pride
absurdly kindle my eyes.
She talks in riddles,
exposes her middle,
as hard and strange in my arms:
I love her. Her charms
are those of a fine old book
with half-cut pages,
bound in warm plush
at her white neck's nape.
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