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Earl L. Dachslager


“Tomorrow,” he said, feeling like a fine soufflé, light, warm,

And done with loving care, “write for me a poem of love.”

“Homework?” she wanted to know. “An assignment?” As though

To say: Am not I, my self, sufficient, words apart?

Whoever longed for the language of love past the part of flesh?


Ah, my dear, the words are only a sign meant to tell

Another way of passion’s time and turn and your special spell—

My wish for your voice, some determined need of speech

As, shall we say, a small boon for some overcast afternoon,

When I shall miss the true touch and shape of you

And long then your certain words to read and hear,

Your words, only, to urge me past my up and coming fear.

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