Had it not been for the furious storm that swept the sea up over the docks, and broke the masts of fishing boats, and moved the rocks across the beach, and closed the solitude of night, I might have slept those hours and never known the wind, never watched the corolla around the moon. But there it was. I thought of you in Yugoslavia. And now it is another year, and I have known your arms a while before you went. Though I remember, it is turning June and I will go away, Alaska bound, perhaps, perhaps across the Yukon štil the snow stops me. I don't know where you'll be. I thought of you in Yugoslavia. Time may ease the thoughts I have of you, and you may hear, remembering the name and nothing else, that I have gone to take the nod on a cold stage in a cold place. Praised for words unheeded, I may stand gray and deaf: will I remember my blood-pounding hours of you, and will I think of you in Yugoslavia?
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Warren Wedin email@example.com