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Letter #9

February 18, 2011

I don’t want your easy nakedness.

How much  can you undress

and still show me nothing more but skin, hair and nails.

I want what peeks through your teeth when you smile-

when you blink in amazement

or tear up, or glare your eyes clue me in

not to a secret   but what you are

always in plain view

I’m hungry for the stories  you are spinning   between  words.

Here in your room alive with your  animal scent

in its spheres of  order and disorder

before the make-up and sprays of perfume

I’ve already found  you whole  in the  scattered pieces

I am a supplicant in a broken temple.

 

 

 

 

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