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MODERN
POET
I
am not supposed to adore anything,
let alone extol your primrose camisole;
the café cremeof your midriff must stay
unpublished. I am supposed to sputter
like a terrorists fuse. Tusk the arctic air
like
a narwhal. Immolate us. I am not
supposed to prize your plush omelets, your
slips cutwork, your slate opera hose
chafing my ears. I am not supposed to say
or scrawl my wealth, my poverty, our tears.
STEVEN
DAGAMA
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