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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