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48 the poem speaks to nothing Unbuttoned, opened into whiteness, you are so pure it is grotesque.You lie quietly, your breath so shallow I can barely see your chest rising, falling. Dumb as a pane of glass, you let me see clean through you. Rooted deep in absence, you know less than you think: names, not faces.The math of you is nonsense: only zeros to carry. I multiply and divide you.You look on, bored, impotent. Rolling your blind eyes, you refuse me. You’re all pins and needles, crackling television snow to sift through. But I shape your hollows in my image, one by one, and fill them wholly. Reveling in coolness, you beget yourself. I paint my face on your blank canvas. ...

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