A MythJen Tynes
My love may make your skin turn red and raw-turn into some ashes, my love might give you chlamydia if you can call that out and make it likened to a sound: my body, a rough instrument or a roughly planted bundle of flowers, a black grecian sentiment that starts with O! If I were a man instead of a bear I would celebrate the way that you move on to a different thought when we are talking in the afternoon in the front yard in front of everybody: the body turns to perfect glass: the body of the city we are loving each other through is the sort of thing that goes transparent when you start thinking about it: something else entirely is about to stop our hearts. Think about the taste of river water. Don't come up on me from behind and present that as a transformation. I know you are neither angelic nor inanimate, I am nothing but a bear who wants to make things glimmer with my muzzle tucked into the water, tipped down into the water and back: up to find the roseate glow of your black old border: everyone else has left us alone on the grass by the patches of hard-droped peonies, and it is almost going to be morning.
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