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45 got After Jean Dubuffett’s Fugitive She was liquid, moved like the billows and wet my skin. Liquid. I bought time for loving her. Was a day way way back I wouldn’t touch her. She was so clear she slid on down whatever, slid on down like something other, and never had to be nowhere, nothing she didn’t want. Seemed to me there must be something wrong with a woman had that kind of freedom. She was liquid, poured, couldn’t stop her, down and out despite the cup my hands would hold her in. Gone if she wanted. Anywhere at all. But all this hot heat pulled her my way with the moon. So here I am now, here I absolutely am. It’s a flood all around me, water every single where. And ain’t no pumping I can do to free and clear myself. No running away from her kind of holding tight. Until she pulls 46 the other way, tossing me from sleep to the dirt of just my body there to hold, until she leaves me dreaming, oh to touch her, oh to touch her running over me. ...

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