apodyopsis inflicted
and I can’t lick it
so I imagine you unfold
one more time
with one tyrannical fumble.

like some cheap origami
you pick up as you fang your way
through bra hooks and brunches,
never-ending coffee and one-liners.
something the other ones taught you.
stiff congratulations or how are you and
that’s wonderful
followed by
nine months of inimical
silence,
I distort you into something
palpable.
my fingers move easily,

clumsy.
you’re the botched swan
I frame proudly:

                 (I am the loaded rifle)
licked,
smoothed with assurance,
loosely creased looseleaf
quickly reduced to a crumple
without altar
floating to the floor,
harmonic little
M O  R E
in my palm
on your way
to the tile
where I gently lay you and
without altar

leave you
once
m  o  r  e.
“redress”

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