from here boldness doesn’t seem so brave; rather frigid
like haughty pranksters frolicking naked and backwards
in december, laughing at me with the sultriness of their smirks
and metastasizing my ambition for more or less the pace of living
my own life freely. i, too, breathe spontaneity, or simply imply
the paucity of green in winter to be breathtaking and mundane.
my fingers are transgressions when they’re not around
your corpse, a mastery of delightful Xerox copying, paper
breasts and two dimensional ecstasy.
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