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Unbroken
Bearings
I live in a damp house
with slime ankle deep from the door.
You come and go, a man
not really cut out to farm,
but tolerant of my mania
enough to take your bearings
on my lips. The taste familiar,
we adjourn to bed.
It has to be ourselves;
the sum and total
of our faith in living.
The feeling different
every time we touch.
Like children newly come to life,
mouths defy all figures of speech.
Our bodies, beyond us,
go deeper.
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