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I have tied—firmly—my girl to
Stumps of iron, with
Rope of stone.

I keep her at home, feeding
Chewed bits—massacres—of
Lamb gut,
Fox eyes,
Duck fat.

My last lover
Belched me songs of fidelity.
We raised the child …

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I don’t usually give money to beggars. After all, they’ll only spend it on drink. So I’m really not sure what got into my head that July morning. Maybe it was the sunshine, maybe it was the girls in short …

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