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Poem Number 23263
She is wearing a ring of rose quartz, gold wire
coiled like a weapon of Helen of Troy.
She is telling a fortune, she is getting a sun tan,
as the sweaty oil drips from her like chocolate
and I am not fortunate and I am not hungry, and
I am not Paris and this is too rich.
And I have no ring and her message to me
has no rosey ending and coils round my soul
strangling, like the abduction of innocense.
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