SWEEPING OBJECTS

The lover’s day has past,
and I don’t know what to do with myself.

I stroke the lambs’ ear, already soft,
re-examine the conch shell curvature.
The fingers alone desire a word from the hip;
however, I cannot get anywhere further than the lip.
Cracking lips, peek-a-boo tongue sweeping
its own moisture to conceal a crevice.

And these little attentions paid to myself,
they help.

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