  Come up, thou red thing. Come up, and be called a moon. The mosquitoes are biting to-night Like memories. Memories, northern memories, Bitter-stinging white world that bore us Subsiding into this night. Call it moonrise This red anathema? Rise, thou red thing, Unfold slowly upwards, blood-dark; Burst the night’s membrane of tranquil stars Finally. Maculate The red Macula. Taormina. |
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