You, who I have known, dumb

from work, are on the back
of a drawing. Your dark nostils
blot the page. You have drawn my back
to you, my whole back, on the last page
of a large leaf and another, of my mouth full
of gills. You are working for
this picture, the relation it makes, the scene
we had in the upper story of a guest
house, fumbling for the hour and the next thing,
drawing it out like we were puffy we were moved
something unremarkable

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