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Poking of needles the weeping no veins
but we will take it, no matter how big,

receive a god, lucky animal, brain’s
crank-shaft, tongue’s slit, with four fingers we dig

into the threshing. These memories burn.
Evidence that this body is still yours.

Evidence it’s the reckless that we learn
and the long strides, wet boots, the horrid sores

discovered when stop turns to rest. I walked
away. I walked. Junk like wheat; like garish

dust; snort up, wolf down. All this fat purring
as the needle goes in. My body mocked

the gods who loved such need. Shafts fall. A wish
to want something that bad comes galloping.