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Pick me clean. Strung up I’ll never go down
on my best friend. Never gape or have her

sodden laundry slap my face. All these nouns
define me. I am more girlie-satyr

than twin cocked-minotaur; with flute and fleas
and dung between my hooves. I know the more

that I write today the less I will please.
I hate being someone’s gear-notch; hardcore

engine-grind. I shift. I shaft. Stranger’s love
poems bore me. So what? They still won’t

dig graves or change diapers. Hush. There’s a hill.
(there is always a hill) with birds above

where I sit and do satyrie-shit. Don’t
it just cut ya? like bones in a gristmill.