Thom Gunn Poems info The pulsing stops where time has been, The garden is snow-bound, The branches weighed down and the paths filled in, Drifts quilt the ground. We lie soft-caught, still now it's done, Loose-twined across the bed Like wrestling statues; but it still goes on Inside my head. Category: Love making Author: Thom Gunn 0 Give your vote +5 Like this poem? leave your comment here Thom Gunn

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