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Click hereErotic poem, but not Joycean or in a letter to Nora
Your lips are dry
and the goods are overboard
playing lewdly,
panting and poured between
two dark places,
you're flush and biting
and sweetly burning,
until you've garbled
with your secret talk
and teeming.
...And Then Sleep
Your lips in whispers
shaped in traces of my name,
hidden in murmur.
i mentioned this poem in the new poem review thread in the poetry forum - wildsweetone