If I consent to measurement, a near
fine condition in underwires, rounded shoulders,
Then it becomes by sheer artifice, perhaps,
Through the blind of officewear of what a fitting
Can accomplish, and what may be our blotted
Impressions through the day's articles
of black or sand dune.
So it tenses,
A nerve between the two, secured by fillets and eyelets,
The mind's forgotten straight pins in the body--
Starred sentences, silences
Between us and some mouth's remaining rust patterns
We must solder up to,
Two abreast in the deep plunge and push up.
* I like the brand's unsuggestiveness in color or "urchin" for that particular turquoise.
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