Theres stuff to do with your heart.
Theres time to write in the sweat of your dark summer.
To peal my hands from your bruised thighs.
To mouth the horn's hollow buzz
Unhinged the door is hung to flail
Founding some new place.
A time when my hot breath coats
your strong neck.
My tongue carves your clavicle.
My cheek-bone learns quick to fill your sternum.
And we can rejoice all torn up,
mixed to shreds, worked over with fluids and fearlessness .
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