I don't love you the way I used,
Even though I'm afraid to put this on paper,
That old superstition that the thing once said
Is real. Not that I lack hope: she is warm
And tender as my heart, but fragile too,
A dove, fluttering behind the rib-cage,
Neither at rest nor in flight -- only restless,
Only, she stirs. Rather the weight in my stomach,
That iron boding ill that trembles on the balance,
Makes me sink, and I falter in the scale
Of the tilting land or an abyss of sky.
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