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Each wave soft enough to knead, red and sweet
stunning currents, swampland drifting in drips
inside of me, splishing over goat-feet,
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goat-teats, goat-apocalypse, my goat-lips,
my dark constitution. Curly Just Bled,
Ram Lamb, Roy Batty, Brigid Bard, all slept
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in my dollhouse. When the rain fell I fled.
Off with them twirled in ropes. Most toys, unwept,
hang. Most gods unable to swim must drown.
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Here’s my belly, bread, oil. My pink talon
will spear you a piece while a scarred rain balls
across the swamp. There is no higher ground.
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Pan is my main man, but even gods shun
the doomed; a drowning goat-girl and her dolls.
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