KEEP YOUR SILLY
VISIONS!
Let me
Sweat in my big
green leather chair
copiously
lecherous (as I see myself)
and dream of my
nose—belly-pressed-
squashed beneath
your white “linen.”
Now there’s a
fancy word for what my
nose’s eye
loves. And am I sick
of pessimists who
have never kissed
your crippled
thighs, nor ever bent and said:
“I kiss your
eyes.” Or even dreamed
that there are
visions of them to be
dreamed.
Give me your
hand. We’ll try
New York if you
forget what all
the nuns have
said—they say too much,
but never what
they mean—and they
were looking in
your other eye.
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