Love said, selfishly,
how woman, if loved first,
loved even the warm thought
of its vain patchwork of tangerine leaves.
It worked its face into flown pictures.
Should one portrait appear, it left again,
They knew how to find each other,
their letters changed their want.
Behind their laughter, after their eyes,
they saw in cumulus shadows
the way wonder might love a night.
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