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I want to pound your words to poultice, catch
their shapeless hum as I set them to steep.
I want to trace your temptations across ginger
tea leaves. Where is your rabid, the sultry curl of
your spite? I miss it, I miss you
in lightning bug night. In the canopy call give me
your knuckles knocked words. The ones silent in
scurry, from the shrill bleating Blur, from the keep
of the Shroud, from the tap tooth creature,
from the soilstir swell. I miss all the notches,
the vetch of your voice, my Fossorial, my lost,
my— I wish I’d bottled the whole of your
words, since you’ve never been found.