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brama di Oxford

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my hands ache for lack of your warm stone/ancient eyes/and my feet that/click, swish, shuffle/down your cool alleys

i see you on paper/print/film that cannot capture my swift inhalation

shakespeare had his thousand, i my ten thousand/ natural shocks, that steal my (breath) heart (soul)/if all the sky were paper/and the seas run to ink/(these) our hometown heroes/ could yet finish all the praises and hymns/echoed by St. Frideswide: she who intercedes for us madmen, clerics, academic (fools)