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I KNOW ONLY TO BURY MY HAND IN YOUR POESY
in the salted sod between pomegranate and sweet
briar. how am i to kiss the underground?
i look to doorframes for little coffins.
casketed there is a prayer my tongue caresses. listen.
o hear o here o this is real. what to do
when i did not drop the tome but called
it a problematic object? how many
knocks to the ribcage to repeal
this litany or liturgy? grown
averse to versification: an apostate
can publicly apologize if they wish
to return. i am so often touching
objects after touching lips opened
that my mouth may declare
in judaism without action
confession is pointless.
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