Monday 8/27/2007 01:40:00 AM

Dobermans of discourse bark stout. Collared, but without muzzle. Aren't we there? Or near enough to know. If the home is heart. My children all in words. My offspring in black ink. Rabid as ever. No vaccine strong enough. To stop the virus already begun.

I can count the stitches in their frown. Atoms misbehaving as I try on those old close (clothes).

They still fit, but they never will. Truncated zippers pose the moment. To take pictures we'll never see. To name lies we'll never reveal. To differentiate the poet from the person.

In spots on the lens. In the aptitudes of small men. The thin nightgowns that turn sex to sleep waiting for approval. The purpose of lies. Clearer than it's ever been.

The meaning of life right there in the sacks that carry it. I'd never have been a poet had it not ended. I'd never have become a woman had it lasted.

You're mine. If such a thing could be.

You love me in every way that means nothing.

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