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  • A Poet with a tiny life,
    Perhaps a tiny mind at times,
    Perhaps little bitty hands
    That hold onto old thin cups,
    Teensy, wee feet that bleat
    In pointy-toed heels –
    A mincer mincing, wincer wincing,
    Pinched up hipless spinster
    Twisting to come from a bigger know it.

    Born of watching from a corner chair
    The ass-slinging glare
    From a more careless breed
    Who saunter smoking on a Sunday street,
    Dance like standing sex
    In the dark fog of
    Blues bars. Harleys. And bags of coke
    Washed up on a Mexican beach,
    Ambisexual Mikonos meetings. More.

    Drawing assumptions from these slow moves –
    The way they feed and things she would read,
    A tendency to over-bleed –
    Weaves together a rolling looseness,
    Somehow, pulling it out of herself.
    And sells it, and sells it dear at last,
    To fans who ply the pages
    With their little monkey hands,
    Aping her same wish
    Without the will to concoct the dish.
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