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Correggio There are things I want so badly and then I don’t want them at all, so I go to sleep and when I wake up it’s not desire in heart, crotch, lungs or brain, it’s outside myself and coming at me like the Smog Monster or that thumb of mossy Jove-smoke that climbs around Io, nudging under her arm and around her back, slowly jibbing her backward off her stump. It’s not how her head is slipped in its socket on the top end of her neck. It’s how the one hand drops to bring the smog-thing closer; how the pale other flutters up like a seaweed wad, boneless, glad to the dark.  ...

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