Phoebe is a Dog (after Edna)

The lovely learning evening we jumped some stones and followed Phoebe’s titillating ass. You were phoned out. You were singing hymns and I think great, my body is a bordello, an air craft carrier. Your dog is cutting us off with trees, twelve am, one. We are leashed things, we are Bergman’s pigeons, for once there are words and we have to do with them, what, an abscess, a wolf? I catch you caulking beside the fountain and you admit this silence is food, is wishing. Two people are a convention, they walk the dog. It’s stayed sitting, it’s licked your thighs, an animal hurting herself to be near you. As in animal. No way can I find the fuse en route, the orange ladderings up blue eaves. As in rafters. I know, I’ve known your life is a dog. Your face so early so close to my face I don’t know how to look to you yet. We are thumbed figs, it is a or b, I’m bound to bore my head in your chest. That I slip in the building, the housing hushing, that I take tender fish from your mouth. Now pounding the fingertips into the box. Now some boat or distance to shore, in the gauze on your hands on my shoulders the tow, the paper you put a prayer on a pigeon. I am your holiday, built like a bird, a carafe of brandy angling light. The vowels are like lightness, the pining is light, the dotty seeds, plumed leaf tumors are light.

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