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Your body's a small word with many meanings.
Love. If. Yes. But. Death.
Surely I will love you a little while,
perhaps
as long as I have breath.
December is thirteen months long,
July's one afternoon; therefore,
lovers must outwit
wool,
learn how to puncture fur.
To my love's bed, to keep her warm,
I'll carry wrapped and heated stones.
That which is comfort to the flesh
is sometimes torture to the bones.
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