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pictographs Were there no words, I still would have loved you— your eyes, soaking me in like the rich drench of sunset on canyon walls, and ledges and ancient river bluffs. Were there no words, you would have dipped your wet fingertips in the crushed red ochre— slowly drawing tenderness behind my left knee; desire, in the perfumed cleft of my neck; ten arcs of need in the small of my back. Were there no words, I would have heard your love in the turtle drum of your heart— my head against your chest; my painted body illuminated in translation. -19- ...

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