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Arnold Klein

Love, procumbent,
Your spine is like a line of verse in braille one come bent

On one more touch
Can never touch enough, its spondills so do court touch:

When we part—what?
They say that verse was framed so men could learn by heart what

Bards gave voice to,
And Muses through those bards—and con would I rejoice to

What I now touch;
And if you chide your lover that to so endow touch

With retention
Too much exalts it, love, till you touch each indention

As this dunce has—
Like one who’d con a verse and finds he more than once has

To re-read it—
How tell if he aggrandize touch, or you exceed it?