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This is mine, the cot I sleep on, the breathI draw, the ligament that fastens to the bone.And the whim is mineTo breach a silence or abruptly turn and go.Whatever blooms, withers, newsworthy or no,Including affairs of the heart and affairs of state,Whatever mewls, growls, whoever shouts,Centers on me or may as well not be.But don't take me lightly. If I am forever posturingOr rooting at the breast, I am also sane