about how the night never stops breathing. Or
showers, on and off, fogging down the pipes
he strings across your bed, all rim missile,
ether of the stalwart vats. I could be just
sitting there, neither here, with each hair roaring
favors to goodness itself into the faintness of
lackadaisy, once the pollen this fetid spring
averages out to mistakes in myrrh. I could be
voicing his frostiness as you screw him into
orbits where once our mutual spitcurl dewclaws
randomly matriculate, like we must have know "beauty"
saw herself in half finally, and the dark don't stop
12:00 AM 5/17/02
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