The end is opposite where you were looking. How—
Evolving sexuality, between libraries
of progress, and Trojan wars of recollection—trenches,
my universal texture. How does the Tiger

recline, her velvet freshly laundered in the Milky Way?
By Sibyl thong, peach chemtrails, or does Iris flex
to tempt desire? A belly dance, like Buddha, in
my skull-shaped shell—Does a snail extract

compliance?

//

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