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March


March, I’ve heard them say, is

the last dead month

and the least dead month.


And it wasn’t even that it was March,

but that we (You and I) were born then,

and that it felt to us an incipience,

and a sign.


It wasn’t March when you began to cry:

not because you loved me

but because the the

tremendous true weight

of loving

fell upon you.


And it was not March when you said

several things that I do not remember

now because I remember more particularly


the heat,

your center to my center.

A warm night

most un-like March,

a warming.


And how I long for winter-time,

not only in that it is long and it will

have been long (for time to dash and freeze at once!)

but because at that time

our heat—our centering—

will have outlived the months and all.

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