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10 Shangri-La Draw me a hangman’s portrait. Draw me a fine girl in the river. Draw me against the black of your eyes. Draw me and what I give—lips drawn, still singing. Draw Shangri-La, you did, did you, the year you left with only the blues: lucky, but still. The fine girl in the grass. We’ve been laid down, yes-yes, say yes, a mouth rubbed all in tequila and sea salt, a famished belly and you kissing it. And shadow of limestone, and the barn, and mazes out of cornstalks. O tanned—what legs! Inside your jeans. Draw each thing that keeps you breathing, draw your kitchen sink, draw a bath for coupling. My I still love you, am drawn to your wicked ways, to your sleepy ways, to your underwater, tiny, sweet ways. Draw me a mouth, a red red mouth. ...

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