You wrestle with an essence. Curling alongside someone's
analogue brogue, you can gorge yourself on animal fat
on the hoof; you can pounce on opulent ventures still latent
with sterility; you can grow your order over every other
face until you walk on unrippled undappled pathways
and no gaze savages your form. The lookout on the mountain
grazes unheard trees, even weeps when she finds
those broken limbs; hot hazy days, the blood of the conquest,
puddles lapping at the margins of the Lake. A marquee
on the Lorain Plaza Theatre says something that reads.
I calculated the lacerations, their rate and their tarry,
and turned red over end, over and over and over again
until you walk, striped with tertiary operations,
through my door. Then you might have looked at me--

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