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Poem from Cecile Rossant

And to his lips which were not yet lips but still tools for speaking I held a finger up to my own, the top and the bottom each thick as a finger: Sh! Sh! Hush! Ssss! I showed him I told him but still his head with its lipless mouth kept on talking.

I knew what to do to bring his arms to paddle the air – crude oil on the joints – and his torso middle to tank up on gas, expand with lust, with love, with lust,

to flutter, flutter, float.

I put my lips to his face, to his manly there-you-are-now-lips and lifted him up with my moist breathing.

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