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Letter #7

January 29, 2011

I’m your mark, you’re my dancer

take off your dress

and let our  lies commence.

The scoop of your waist

makes it easy to relate  all my pent up distress

my street  full of  slush and ice

on your studied  skin

and the drip of perfume from your hair

( you’re scented the same-

sweetly, like the rest,

at least the three previous girls-

did  you bathe in the same fountain

Or bottle?)

You speak  softly I could barely hear

( so lean closer)

through this  throbbing song.

I see  you’re training me well

for second-guessing.





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