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Desire I’m not where I should be, washing a load of whites or correcting papers. All else before you is small, desire, sweet emergency, don’t ask me where we are or what we’re doing. Crisis in your eyes, and in your hands—I can’t bear to remember your hands; I could eat them, each finger a meal in itself. Won’t dare to imagine your neck, nor its prickly man-scented, squared-off hairline; better the sudsy load of sweat socks and towels, it’s/its errors, In today’s society transitions. You and I step through these dream gates together, each swinging door a monstrous, ornate D. Town without pity, city of sinner-saints, city that never sleeps. Open all night and Christmas and oh, let go my hand; no, take it, take them both— I can’t bear my empty hands, my empty throat, my little town, my bed empty of you. 66 ...

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