it needs to be licked
by a tongue of mighty color
and the tongue will be ripped
and the blood will flow
and the words will melt back into form
and all tongues will be broken
by the one.
The cliff caged
by its receding wave
offers a few
half-strangled handholds,
some bitter and twisted roots
that escaped the purge
through sheer irrelevance
and sexual irrelevance,
these discontinued prototypes,
these lurching ballerinas
finding a magnetic scar.
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