She always wanted to start a poem with him, but it never really happened between the way she insisted on prose and the way he disappears as imagery: everything must be perfect, all of the events should be foretold, she insists that once a gun appears, it has to be fired, and it was pulsating along with the weather-beaten leatherlike temple, then it starts to shake along with her hands, the steel biting her clammy fingers with its cold unfamiliarity, like the lines written by Sappho, jagged Greek. She never understood what pleasure means until a body rests next to her, warm sticky fluid pooling between them, and she needs to sweat it out, like an exercise to figure out a lover out of her own words until they become exhausted.

30 May 2012
with Mo


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