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Monday, October 05, 2015

Sleeping with Poets

I sleep with poets, getting inside their minds
I'm in their bodies, I smell the New England air,
Or walk across America with some native,
The head of her husband in her lap,
I rip the already open envelope and bite at words,
Consuming slowly, or quickly, as the taste may be;
I skin the letters, like buffalo
Shot dead and still and composed on the plains
Of paper trails; I reap the wheat, or tease
The honey, my fingers dipped in gold, I eat.

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