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days with you, years without – nights alone now – but not you, not you – is where – where is – cold dark morning huddled beneath a dripping tree – fog diffracts light – face wet moisture smear smears mascara – papercups, papercups – coffee replaces the fumes of our acrid vodka breaths – I’m trying to find a line to steal – perhaps lie to you that it was mine – I make truths of lies

The gelid god Thanatos
is the microscopic whisper
in the brain stem –
and the transcendental tremble
of flesh
follows.

Shyness marked by silence broken
by a verbal torrent of poetry you might recite – how you incite
the senses with eyes – all this – hideous and kinky

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