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66 Cloistered Your first means of seduction was effortless: your voice rolled from your throat, breakers that crashed on my ears. All choice dispelled, I had to listen to this litany, take orders. I tried to pin down the essence of our days to your pipe, my cigarettes, an envelope of haze—bliss. Each bottle-sip, or slice of pickle, glossy olives fished from brine— Each oily bite meant something. . . Delicious, our escape into this new religion, the world outside one great samsara. Moan, koan, our own shivery space distilled to tantric kisses, the swing of our embrace. ...

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