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ISSUE:  Winter 2004

The years of my youth, my sensual life—
how clearly I see their meaning now.

What needless repentances, how futile. . .

But I didn’t see the meaning then.

Out of the dissolute life of my youth
my poetry’s aims grew
my art’s realm was drawn.

That is why the repentances were never steadfast.
And my resolutions to hold back, to change,
lasted two weeks at most.



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