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Let It All Hang Out

We will begin simply, sinking into our bones and allowing the tips
of our ears to be pulled heavenward.  Feel the bisons of your arms.
I meant yams, the yams of your arms and the articulate way you espouse
your love for me in crayon, like a saint. Gather that love into your front
brain and then let your front brain melt away. Oh cheese on meat
in the diner, oh the plastic spork stuck in my thigh, oh that all of heaven’s
angels were somehow less scary, oh that there were a heaven or angels.
I’ll be over here on the lunch shift in my poet’s discount running shoes.
You’ll know me by my sleepy sway with an overlarge broom, like a saint
or an angel or any half-slumped member of celestial society.  I’m starting
to feel slightly redundant, almost icicle-like in my self-involved mists
and open ended afternoons.  Help?

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