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Let all the lovers be consumed into

intimacies. Let the interlopers


play with robbed muscles and slack sinew.

Let the sea give me all its pink corals,


betta fighting fish. I, too, am beta.

The slack sub-boy who has what hunger wants.


I, too, have played with a cardboard ouija;

listened to love’s whine, its nails-on-board haunts.


I’ve let the outlaws in, they’re so certain

that the fuck that they give is the right one.


There’s more plastic in the ocean than sharks;

that is what will be left to our children.


And words. And poems. About Hope’s garden.

And Yahweh’s pact. And Rumi’s love dog’s bark.