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To the woman
In the posture formed up like perfect old letters
Turning towards a new language.
With your limbs reaching out in a creative statement,
And your stomach drawing in, out of ordinary rhythms:
Look and see my forceful gesturing,
My panicked, sidewalk escapades
And shadow playing self.
My sharp pointing sides,
The one thousand edges
Of my unending wants.
Isn’t there a part of you that explores me?
Down where sagebrush grows,
Like in a trench,
Or in burning ground,
Couldn’t you combine your grace with mine?
With a clean torch
Down in prayer mode,
To become my lover,
To heal my crookedness
And straighten my limbs.

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