like congruent dashes in rainy mud
Or pawed ink--kissing wet paper,
Running from the volume language.
What a sound you--You, pull from your slop
Your sleeve.
The land, indeed, is better hid--
Graffitied. The rain is a common excuse for
It's charming slashes--
And your tongue--reticent as it is,
commands shivering asses.
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