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my  body  burns in its secret  chamber, a  full
feeling,    like    youthful     elbows    pressing
against earth in a late at night passing of the
jug,   a  what-does-it-all-mean   round  robin.
What  does  it  mean,  this  post-throb  throb,
sperm     swimming    to    no     more     eggs,
baby-shop   closed,   heart   still   open?    For
hours,   I   walk   bow-legged   around   these
embers,    summer    sun     pounding    down,
carrying    you   to   the   park   and   back,  air
hot-petal sweet. Soon, the  ashes  will cool, a
beach  fire-pit  the  waves  douse,  but where
flames once danced, they’ll dance again.

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