a memory: untitled

are you sisters
dancers, an innocent
enough inquiry and had we
the decency of dancers we may
have left him his dignity in response
indecency, however, is
the occupation of poets so we
in synchronized sonnet pounced
dripping iambic pentameter across
his abdomen like a procession of
candle wax our minds weapons of
mass destruction well versed in the
resurrection of nether part we left him
bated and dazed awash in images
reminiscent of liaisons never encountered
an orgy of metaphor who would not want
more when you meet on the street a gang
she poets who take on lovers
for sport or as antidote to a line
unfinished

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