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There's no one in this poem.
That's the wine talking. That's the
phlox in the field undressing
the fescue with purple clusters. I love what's beneath you.
And the office carpet
has a carpet I love to cover it.
It feels better without not hurting,
like a fart brings your beauty to life
galloping around the field with branch antlers.
She loved him enough to make him marry
Mary, he her enough not to do it.
Between her legs he tasted iron.
There's no one in this poem to touch your penis
or listen to your clitoris. The water rises
around the debt of the body. There's no body
left to serve the sentence, the icon of the state
long since become a face,
in an antique skirt, no underwear
on the driest hundred acres. A bandana
on my face and the sun on your
equality, to live in the field where a stick has fallen,
I just wanted to hear your voice,
not letting it be touched, or in this
that came toward you but never crossed that mystic border.
Then something did happen.
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Both regulators and employers have embraced new technologies for on-the-job monitoring, turning a blind eye to unjust working conditions.
But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.