Sunday, April 19, 2015

Killed Paive -- July 8 -- 1918 -- Ernest Hemingway


Desire and
All the sweet pulsing aches
And gentle hurtings
That were you,
Are gone into the sullen dark.
Now in the night you come unsmiling
To lie with me
A dull, cold, rigid bayonet
On my hot-swollen, throbbing soul.          



                  

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