Shirt Sleeved - Poem by Rita Dove
turn toward leather as the trees
blush, scatter a last
few bright, weary wisps across
the great bruised heart of the South.
The spirit cup drifts
down the pond's moon-sparked highway.
Far laughter, shadows.
Love or poison? Your turn. Drink
to the star-drenched latitudes
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You