its not common,
or the safer path
at once the purist with with brick noise
hand clap, the red blood crane
tip-toeing marshlands, you; picking fish;
printing ideas in the back of your mind.
i was afraid of this.
that you would fancy
your loved, that i am your beloved.
or that that the wet smell
pooled on your carpet, so
astringent, so well rebuked
could form a tidal wave
and pull my body into
gravity.
flightless against the clip
of your devotion.
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