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The Nympholept
The crimson sun slipping down through the haze Smoothly as I arrived is now half gone, Its color riding the backwash; and I run And sketch a plan to draw out of her daze Of shyness Pam who writes so well, and faze The Marxist glibnesses maybe of Juan, When the girl walks by, barefoot, putting down Footprints still clear under the water glaze. Later, it’s two girls writing in notebooks As I come in, in the deep dusk they lean To see their words. Then still another looks My way as I get in my car, to say “Yer a good runner!” I, startled: “Nah.” — “I’ve seen You often …” drifts through the gloom as she goes her way.
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