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WaistLands

(Written on a bus, briefly taken aback and mesmerized by your exposed knee)

I suffer from your beauty.
Even the square curve of your knee,
hard and compact like your voice,
is a perfect crevice, shape of sunlight
for these desert-frozen fingers, a clasp of
jewel knuckles yearning. I would run hands
along solid spaces of
your thigh, soften

I would harden myself
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