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“45. Just when it seems she will sing deport” in “Musing”
45.
Just when it seems she will sing deport
From some ancient Occitan love poem
And desire will win the day, the song
Of the hour leads these lovers down
Some incomprehensible garden path
That even the ghost of Petrarch cannot
Follow, and in the meadows he complains
About soldiers of Islam, coming from
Africa. The old names of love and war
Are as anxious as lovers asleep on a bed
Of newspapers with screaming headlines
About clashes in the suburbs
In the Middle East. The wind blows sand
On the prints that vanish with their breath.
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