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I first tasted under Apollo's lips
love and love sweetness,
my hair is made of crisp violets
or hyacinth which the wind combs back
across some rock shelf;
was mate of the god of light.
His hair was crisp to my mouth
as the flower of the crocus,
across my cheek,
cool as the silver cress
on Erotos bank;
between my chin and throat
his mouth slipped over and over.
Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
and my hands keep the gold they took
as they wandered over and over
that great arm-full of yellow flowers.
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