Sharing as we do our world of safe abundance,
of fresh milk and tomato-big blueberries, it's strange
to think of our succulent selves blown apart
by that faraway generator come sweet brown October
What a thing, my love, to be two spinning minds
made of edible meat, topping sixty-four teeth!
We run like geese from torment, love
forming sand-brief shelters out of ourselves














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