is the line I’ve been looking for
all this time
I’ve been writing poems.
That smooth and terrible
grace, the subtle
slope of your breasts
toward the floor,
my hands kneading
your back. Your giddiness,
my hands, our tongues,
salves, are alms
for these wounds. Are
poems, are medicines
are the lines
belonging on our pages.
Subtle, lying on your
shag carpet,
slowly rocking toward
the dawn.
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