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A DIFFERENT RISING I reflect, in the bath, on your penis— how it floats, lotuslike, loose-stemmed, a different rising. And as it hardens, dips: a long-billed bird, curving for fish. But mostly we are made of a heavier stuff, the slow descent of breast, foot-arches flattening towards earth, the hundred ways the body longs for home. Even those red worlds, the hybrid dahlias— despite the bamboo stakes, the wire, leaning further groundward with every flowerwith what love or greed or vast indifference gravity pulls them down. While in the water bird's throat, the white, visible pulse of a fish. Between being and becoming, turning wildly as it falls. 28 ...

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