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6 After the procedure All the apples have been washed. I sprayed every apple with a liquid that cleans pesticides away. I prayed very leap myself with a quid that kneels pesty vices away. On the counter, pictures of my wife’s stomach. Her esophagus and duodenum. A-OK, her inner life, while she sleeps drugs on the couch. While she rugged peels no the slouch. The worm crawled in, took pictures. Endoscopy. The sun comes in, warms my eyes, drops bits of far away against my looking. I am grateful; she fully great. She will rise and be herself, a dash inside out, invaded, but here and projected in that state to remain. I am thinking soup. I ma, thin king of do. Do make lunch, wash dishes, do inspect her breath. It is there, the up and down. I kiss her paper esophagus. Intimacy evolves. Intimacy solves. I never expected love. All the apples have been washed. hicok pages i-120.indd 6 1/7/10 3:23 PM ...

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