p.174

This is the elegy
to my sexual body.
Gone with intoxicated
mistakes, tripping over
vertically placed flesh
and bones. I can no longer
bone, or make “love” to.
And when my hips sway
like crashing waves for lighthouse
dicks,
I feel the sun spread across my lips
moving east in a smile
with bittersweet epiphany;
a thought relieving symphony;
I never felt them anyways.

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