Three Hundred and Sixty-Five (Thank You)

It’s selfish for me
to think
you gentle, assign
adjectives I need, create
a snapshot
of your hands
in my mind
just to please me.
I cannot create you
from words on a screen.

Love
grows rich outside
of reality.

Not the dirty
word love, that dry
hacking cough, scratching
the soul
in a starving
darkness
wanting desperately to please
while mostly
just needing

but

love,
swollen and heavy,
overflowing, swaying, undulating,
hypnotizing,
raw, slick and dirty
in the moistness of spring,
merciless, discordant
fungus
repeating
and
repeating
and
repeating.


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