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How Things Work by Michael H. Brownstein

8/18/2013

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desert-poem-undergroundbooks
I kiss you on the forehead hard. And why?
So you can pommel me with tortoises.
So you can photograph me below the sign: “Mules for hire.”
So you can force me to dial the number ending in B0B0.
Let me eat all the way into your bathroom.
Let me smell each corner of the litter in your lust.
Let me meditate the place between your ears.
Some of the time the donkey thinks he’s a horse.
Other times he believes he’s a camel in the horizon
the dessert sand so much sticky snow.
photo credit: slworking2 via photopin cc
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