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    Saturday
    Jan212012

    The Cure

               When you are nuzzle-hupfing my neck

    I try not to think about the wild

    and forbidden things that you have tasted:

    the blood memory behind your dark eyes;

    the deep secrets of the soil

    translated huff by huff into the moist

    slits of your nose.

    I surrender to your rasp as it

    tastes the grooves of my face,

    imagining the oils of my industrial,

    combustive day lapped

    up metallic on your tongue.

    Your eyes glaze with the rhythm

    and intensity of your  effort

    to tame and detoxify me, and

    I obediently fall into your dumb darkness

    of dust and dog pee and wind-borne gossip.

    You take me to the entrance of innocent sleep

    and teach me the beast language

    in which suffering is cured by more suffering,

    while civilization whines and howls,

    indecipherable and distant

    between the bellies of the hills.

     

     

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